PR0NTI8PIE0E. 


p.    25 


MINISTERmG    CHILDREN : 


^   Sale 

DEDICATED     TO     CHILDHOOD- 


BY 


MAPJA     LOUISA     CHAP.LEoWOR' 
fi 

A-urnoB  or 


"  England's  yeoiten,"  "  mixtsiry  of  life,"  "  suxdat  xtteekoons  m 

THE  XURSEIIY,"    "  COTTAGE  AND   ITS  VISITOR,"    "AFRICA'S  MOUK- 
TAIN   VALLEY,"    "THE    BEAUTIFUL    HOME,"  ETC. 


"EYen  a  child  isknoxrn  by  his  doings,  whether  his  work  be  pure,  and  wh«tuer  ll 
be  right,'" — Pboveebs  xx.  11. 

"Doctrlnei  are  the  pillars  of  a  discourse.— Illustrations  ars  tha  tdndowa  that  let  la 
tte  light" 


NEW  YORK: 
ROBERT    CARTER   AND    BROTHERS, 

No.     530    BROADWAY. 
18G7. 


PREFACE. 

Difficulty  being  sometimes  felt  in  training  chil- 
dren to  the  exercise  of  those  kindly  feelings  which  have 
the  Poor  for  their  object,  it  was  thought  that  an  illus- 
trative tale  might  prove  a  help  toward  this  important 
end.  It  must  be  allowed  by  all,  that  the  present  is  a 
day  of  increased  exertion  in  behalf  of  those  who  are  in 
need  ;  but  much  care  is  necessary  that  the  temporal 
aid  extended  may  prove,  not  a  moral  injury,  but  a 
moral  benefit,  to  both  the  receiver  and  the  communi- 
cator of  that  aid.  May  it  not  be  worthy  of  conside- 
ration, whetheT*  the  most  generally  effective  way  to 
msTje  this  moral  benefit  on  both  sides,  would  not  be 
the  early  calling  forth  and  training  the  sympathies  of 
chiMren  by  personal  intercourse  with  want  and  sorrow. 
while  as  yet  those  sympathies  flow  spontaneously.  Let 
the  truth  be  borne  in  mind,  that  the  influence  of  the  giver 
far  ^ixceeds  that  of  the  gift  on  the  receiver  of  it  ;  and  it 
vCLuat  surely  then  be  admitted,  that  in  all  aid  rendered 

101692 


ir  PREFACE. 

to  others,  the  calling  into  exercise  the  best  feelings  of 
the  heart,  in  both  the  giver  and  the  receiver,  is  the 
most  important  object  to  be  kept  in  view.  To  this  end 
it  is  necessary  that  the  talent  of  money  be  not  suffered 
.  assume  any  undue  supremacy  in  the  service  of 
jjnivolence.  Let  children  be  trained,  and  taught,  a,nd 
led  aright,  and  they  will  not  be  slow  to  learn  that  they 
possess  a  personal  influence  every  where  ;  that  the  first 
principles  of  Divine  Truth  acquired  by  them,  are  a 
means  of  communicating  to  others  present  comfort  and 
eternal  happiness  ;  and  that  the  heart  of  Love  is  the 
only  spring  that  can  elSectually  govern  and  direct  the 
hand  of  Charity. 


MINISTERING   CHILDREN 


CHAPTER    I. 

•*Ohl  say  not,  dream  not  heavenly  notes 

To  childish  ears  are  vain; 
That  the  young  mind  at  random  floats 
And  can  not  catch  the  strain. 

Dim  or  unheard  the  words  may  fall, 

And  yet  the  heaven-taught  mind 
May  learn  the  sacred  air,  and  all 

The  harmony  unwind." 

"And  this  Is  the  confidence  that  we  have  In  Him,  that,  if  we  ask  any  thing  acoari- 
ing  to  His  will,  He  heareth  us."— 1  John,  v.  14. 

fTlHE  chimes  of  the  great  church  clock  in  a  large  old  town 
-*-  were  playing  a  quarter  to  nine,  on  a  bright  September  morn- 
ing, when  a  little  school-girl,  shutting  her  mother's  door,  came 
stepping  down  the  long  dark  flight  of  stairs  at  the  top  of  which 
she  lived ;  she  wore  no  shawl,  or  cloak,  or  bonnet ;  a  frock  of 
dark  brown  stufi",  a  little  white  linen  apron  tied  roimd  her  waist, 
a  white  linen  tippet,  and  a  little  fine  linen  cap  with  a  singlo 
border  crimped  close  round  her  face  ;  this  was  the  little  school- 
girl's dress.  Her  name  was  Ruth :  and  on  her  arm  she  had 
hung  her  green  baize  bag  with  her  Bible  and  school-books. 

1 


2  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Good-by,  mother,"  slie  said  :  and  shutting  the  door,  stepped 
slowly  down  the  dark  stair-case,  while  her  little  white  figure 
lighted  up  its  gloom.  When  she  reached  the  ground-floor  of 
the  house,  she  heard  a  low  faint  moan,  as  of  some  child  in 
pain  ;  she  stopped  a  minute  to  listen,  and  heard  it  again.  The 
door  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair-case  stood  a  little  way  open, 
and  Ruth  had  sometimes  seen  the  widow  woman  and  her  child 
who  had  come  to  live  in  that  room ;  and  when  she  heard  the 
moan  again,  she  looked  into  the  room,  and  there  she  saw  the 
child  in  bed. 

"  Are  you  ill?"  asked  Ruth. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child ;  "  and  my  pain  is  so  bad !  and  I  have 
nobody  to  be  with  me." 

"  Won't  your  mother  come  ?"  asked  Ruth. 

•'  No,  mother  's  got  a  day's  work ;  she  won't  be  home  all 
day ;  and  my  pain  is  so  bad !  I  wish  you  would  stay  with 
me." 

"  I  must  go  to  school,"  said  Ruth,  "  but  I  will  ask  mother 
when  I  come  home,  to  let  me  stay  with  you  a  little." 

"  0  do !  and  make  haste,  do  make  haste !  I  don't  like  to  be 
left  alone." 

Ruth  went  on  her  way  to  school.  The  sun  was  shining 
bright,  and  its  warm  rays  beamed  on  her  face,  which  was 
almost  as  white  as  the  little  crimped  linen  cap  that  pressed 
closely  round  it.  Merry  children,  boys  and  girls,  ran  shouting 
and  playing  past  her ;  but  she  walked  slowly  on  her  way  to 
school,  and  went  up  the  high  steps,  and  in  at  the  school  door, 
as  the  great  church  clock  was  striking  nine.  A  good  mark 
was  set  down  in  the  book  against  her  name,  and  she  went  to 
her  place  on  the  form. 

Lessons  went  on  for  an  hour,  and  the  great  church  clock 
struck  ten.     Lessons  went  on  for  another  hour,  and  the  great 


I. 


^  ^  OF  THE 


C 


MIVERSITY 


^  MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  3 

cnurcL  clock  struck  eleven.  Then  a  lady  came  into  the 
school,  and  called  the  second  class  to  come  to  her.  The  chil- 
dren gathered  round  her,  and  Ruth  was  one  of  them ;  they 
got  their  Bibles  and  stood  before  her,  and  little  Ruth  had  the 
place  that  was  always  hers,  close  by  that  lady's  side.  Ruth 
did  not  answer  so  many  questions  as  some  of  the  other  chil- 
dren; she  never  spoke  unless  she  was  asked,  and  then  she 
answered  so  softly,  that  no  one  but  the  lady  heard ;  but  the 
lady  always  seemed  to  smile  at  Ruth  when  she  did  answer,  as 
if  she  had  answered  right.  When  the  great  church  clock 
struck  twelve,  the  lady  went  away ;  and  the  children  put  up 
their  books  into  their  bags,  and  went  to  their  homes.  Ruth 
could  not  stay  with  the  sick  child  till  she  had  asked  her 
mother ;  but  she  thought  she  would  just  look  in,  and  tell  her 
she  was  come  back.  Ruth  looked  in,  and  the  child  was  ^ying 
quite  still  in  bed ;  she  did  not  speak,  so  Ruth  went  up  and 
stood  beside  her. 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come !"  said  the  poor  child ; 
"  what  a  long  time  it  was  you  kept  at  school !  Oh  !  I  want 
something  so  bad  !  I  can't  eat  this  bread  mother  left  me ,  it 's 
80  hard,  it  hurts  me  when  I  try." 

"  I  have  not  had  any  food  to-day,"  said  little  Ruth. 

"0  dear,"  said  the  sick  child,  "  how  bad  it  is  !  what  do  you 
do  when  you  have  no  food  ?" 

"  I  tell  Jesus,"  said  httle  Ruth. 

"  Who  do  yQu  tell  ?"  asked  the  poor  child. 

"  Jesus,"  said  little  Ruth. 

"  Who  is  Jesus  ?"  asked  the  poor  child. 

"  What  I  don't  you  know  who  Jesus  is  ?"  said  little  Rutli. 
''  I  thought  every  body  knew  that  except  the  poor  heathen.  .  He 
Is  our  Saviour  ?" 

"Does  He  give  you  some  food  ?"  asked  the  poor  child. 


4  MINISTERING     CHILDREN, 

"O  yes,  He  often  sends  us  some  food  when  mother  haa 
nothing :  but  I  must  go  to  mother  now,  or  she  will  scold." 

"  Do  ask  her  to  let  you  come  and  stay  with  me,"  said  the 
poor  child. 

"Yes,  I  will,"  replied  little  Ruth ;  and  she  went  up  the  high 
stair-case  to  her  mother's  room ;  she  did  not  run  with  light 
quick  steps,  like  children  generally  ;  but  she  went  up  slow  and 
faint ;  for  it  was  not  one  day  alone,  but  many  days,  that  little 
Ruth  went  to  school  without  food.  She  had  lost  her  own 
father :  the  father  she  now  had  was  not  her  own  father,  and 
he  thought  only  of  himself  and  his  own  wicked  pleasures,  and 
left  his  wife  and  her  children  without  food.  But  little  Ruth 
had  learned  to  pray ;  the  lady  who  came  to  the  school  taught 
her  from  the  Bible ;  and  she  had  learned  to  know  the  love  of 
God  her  Saviour;  she  loved  and  trusted  Him,  and,  as  she 
said  in  her  own  words,  when  they  had  no  food  "she  told 
Jesus." 

When  Ruth  went  into  her  mother's  room,  she  saw  on  the  table 
a  can  of  steaming  soup.     "  0  mother !  is  that  for  us  ?"  she  asked- 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  it  is.     Miss  Wilson  sent  it  in  this  minute." 

Miss  Wilson  was  the  lady  who  came  to  the  school.  Ruth 
had  not  told  Miss  Wilson  about  their  having  no  food  that  day  *, 
so  when  she  saw  this  can  of  hot  soup  she  knew  it  was  Jesus 
her  Saviour  who  had  put  it  into  Miss  Wilson's  heart  to  send  it 
to  them.  The  poor  babe  was  asleep  on  the  bed ;  but  Mary, 
Ruth's  little  sister,  was  standing  at  the  table  crying  to  be  fed. 
Then  the  mother  got  a  bason,  and  poured  it  full  for  Mary  There 
was  meat,  and  rice,  and  potatoes  in  the  nice  hot  soup ;  and  poor 
little  Mary  left  oflf  crying  directly  she  had  her  spoon  and  began 
to  eat.  Then  the  mother  poured  out  a  larger  bason  for  Ruth, 
who  stood  quite  patient  by  the  table.  Ruth  waited  a  minufc€ 
with  her  food  before  her. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  5 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  now  ?"  asked  her  mother ;  "  I 
have  nothing  more  for  you." 

"  No  mother  ;  but  that  widow's  child  is  laid  in  bed ;  she  says 
her  pain  is  so  bad,  and  her  mother  's  out  working,  and  she  wants 
me  to  sit  with  her." 

"  Poor  thing !"  said  Ruth's  mother ;  "  well,  take  your  dinner, 
and  then  you  may  go  a  little  while  if  you  like." 

"  She  has  no  food,  mother,  but  a  hard  bit  of  bread,  and  she 
says  she  can't  eat  it,  because  it  hurts  her." 

"  Oh  !  and  so  you  want  to  be  after  giving  her  some  of  yours, 
do  you  ?  here,  give  me  yonr  bason  then,  and  you  take  this  jug." 
And  Ruth's  mother,  pouring  some  more  soup  into  the  broken 
jug  she  had  taken  for  herself,  gave  it  to  Ruth.  "  There,  take 
care  how  you  go,  that  you  don't  lose  it  now  you  have  got  it !" 
said  the  mother.  And  Ruth,  holding  the  jug  in  both  hands, 
went  slowly  and  carefully  down  stairs.  How  happy  was  she 
now — in  her  hands  she  held  the  food  she  so  much  wanted ;  and 
the  poor  sick  child,  left  all  alone,  was  to  share  it  with  her  and 
be  happy  also !  As  she  got  near  the  bottom  of  the  stair-case 
she  stepped  quicker  in  her  eager  haste ;  then,  pushing  open  the 
door,  she  went  in  saying,  "  See  here,  Miss  Wilson  sent  us  this 
beautiful  soup,  and  mother  's  given  me  some  for  you  !" 

"  0  dear,  how  nice  !  how  glad  I  am !"  said  the  poor  child. 

"  Have  you  got  a  bason  ?"  asked  Ruth. 

"  Yes,  there  's  one  in  that  closet,  and  a  spoon  too,"  said  the 
child. 

Ruth  found  a  small  yellow  bason  and  a  spoon :  she  broke  up 
the  child's  dry  bit  of  bread  in  the  bason ;  poured  some  of  the 
hot  soup  over  it ;  folded  her  hands,  and  asked  a  blessing  in  the 
name  of  Jesus ;  and  then  the  two  children  dined  together.  The 
warm  nourishment  brought  the  color  to  the  white  cheeks  of 
little  Ruth,  and  soothed  the  poor,  faint,  weary  child.    "  How  good 


6  MINISTEJIING     CHILDREN. 

you  axe  to  me  !"  slie  said  to  Rutli.  "  I  feel  better  now  ;  I  ^ink 
I  shall  go  to  sleep."  Ruth  put  away  the  bason  in  the  closet 
again ;  the  sick  child  had  closed  her  eyes,  already  almost  slum- 
bering ;  and  the  little  ministering  girl  went  back  to  her  mother. 

A  day  or  two  after,  as  Ruth  came  in  from  school,  the  sick 
child's  mother  was  going  out,  and  she  stopped  and  said  to  Ruth, 
"  My  Lucy  told  me  how  good  you  were  to  her :  the  God  above 
bless  you  for  it !  She  is  always  calling  out  for  you ;  I  wish  you 
would  stay  a  bit  with  her  when  you  can,  just  to  pacify  her." 

Ruth's  mother  gave  her  leave  to  take  the  babe  down  and 
nurse  it  in  the  poor  child's  room — where  she  still  lay  on  her 
wi'etched  bed,  covered  with  a  torn  counterpane.  Ruth  walked 
up  and  down  to  quiet  the  babe  and  get  it  to  sleep ;  she  hushed 
and  hushed  it,  but  that  would  not  do ;  so  at  last  she  began  to 
sing  one  of  her  school  hymns  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Jesus,  refuge  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly." 

The  sick  child  listened ;  the  low  sweet  singing  soothed  the 
infant  to  sleep,  and  the  sick  child  into  quiet  feeling.  "  Is  that 
Jesus  you  sing  about,  who  you  ask  for  food  ?"  said  the  poor 
child. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Ruth,  "  that 's  Jesus  our  Saviour !  I  can  sing 
you  something  else  about  our  Saviour,  if  you  like." 

"  Yes,  do,"  =iaid  the  poor  child.     And  Ruth  sang — 

"  "We  read  within  the  Holy  "Word 
Of  how  our  Saviour  died ; 
And  those  great  drops  of  blood, 
He  shed  at  eventide." 

Over  and  over  again,  while  she  rocked  the  sleeping  baby,  she 
Bang  the  same  soft  words.     When  she  stopped,  the  sick  child 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  7 

Raid,  "  I  can  't  read ;  I  never  went  to  scliool  long  enough  to 
leam.'^ 

"  What,  can't  you  read  the  Bible  ?"  said  Ruth. 

"  No,  I  can't  read  any  thing ;  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  it." 

"  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  Ruth.  "  I  know  such  a  num- 
ber of  stories  out  of  the  Bible !  Miss  Wilson  tells  them  to  us, 
and  sometimes  we  tell  them  to  her.  And  I  know  a  great  many 
verses,  and  some  chapters  and  Psalms.' 

"  I  like  stories  best,"  said  the  poor  child. 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you  one.  Let  me  see,  which  shall  I 
tell  you  ?  Oh !  I  know,  I  will  tell  you  about  the  little  lamb  ! 
Once  there  was  a  good  man,  his  name  was  David ;  he  was  not 
at  all  old,  he  was  quite  young;  and  he  didn't  live  in  a  town 
like  this,  but  he  lived  in  beautiful  green  fields,  and  on  greai 
high  hills,  where  the  flowers  grow,  and  the  trees,  and  where  tLe 
birds  sing.  He  was  quite  young,  but  he  loved  God,  and  Jesus 
our  Saviour.  And  he  prayed  to  God.  And  when  he  saw  the 
stars  come  out  in  the  sky,  he  thought  about  Jesus  our  Saviour, 
who  lives  up  above  the  stars  in  Heaven,  and  he  wrote  about 
Him  in  the  Bible.  He  lived  alone  on  the  great  high  hills  ;  and 
God  took  care  of  him ;  and  he  had  a  great  many  sheep  and 
lambs,  and  they  all  ate  the  grass  and  were  so  happy !  and  he 
took  care  of  them  all.  But  one  day  there  came  a  great  roar- 
ing lion ;  he  came  so  quiet ;  he  did  not  make  any  noise !  and 
he  too'k  a  little  lamb  in  his  great  mouth  and  ran  so  fast  away ! 
but  the  little  lamb  cried  out,  and  David  heard  the  little  lamb, 
and  he  ran  so  fast  that  the  great  lion  could  not  get  away !  and 
he  caught  the  great  lion  and  killed  him ;  and  he  took  the  little 
lamb  in  his  arms,  and  carried  it  quite  safe  back  to  its  mother. 
Is  not  that  a  pretty  story  ?  And  I  know  what  Miss  Wilson  tells 
OS  about  it !" 

"  What  does  she  lell  you  ?"  asked  the  })Oor  child. 


8  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Slio  tells  US,  that  it  is  just  like  Jesus  our  Saviour ;  vfheu 
Satan  the  great  roaring  lion  tries  to  take  us  away,  if  we  pray 
to  Jesus,  Jesus  won't  let  him  have  us ;  but  Jesus  will  take  us 
up  safe  in  His  arms,  and  carry  us  to  Heaven  when  we  die,  and 
then  we  shall  be  so  happy  there  !" 

"  Will  he  carry  me  ?"  asked  the  poor  child. 

"  Yes,  He  will  if  you  pray  to  Him,"  said  little  Ruth. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  pray,"  the  poor  child  replied. 

"  I  will  teach  you  my  prayer,"  said  little  Ruth. 

"  0  God,  my  Heavenly  Father,  give  me  Thy  Holy  Spirit  to 
teach  me  to  know  and  love  Thee.  "Wash  me  from  all  my  sins 
in  my  Saviour's  precious  blood.  Keep  me  from  all  evil,  and 
make  me  ready  to  hve  with  Thee  for  ever  in  Heaven.  For  the 
sake  of  Jesus  my  Saviour.     Amen." 

"  That  is  one  of  my  prayers,  and  I  can  teach  it  to  you.  x 
have  taught  it  to  our  Mary,  and  she  can't  read  yet." 

The  poor  child  tried  to  learn  it,  but  she  could  not  remember 
the  words;  still  it  seemed  to  soothe  her,  to  hear  Ruth  repeating 
them  ;  at  last  the  poor  child  said,  "  Wash  me  from  all  my  sins  ! 
What  are  sins  ?" 

"  That  is  when  we  do  wrong,"  said  little  Ruth ;  "  we  can't  go 
with  our  bad  ways  to  Heaven,  but  Jesus  can  wash  them  all 
away  in  His  blood." 

As  little  Ruth  was  coming  home  from  school  one  of  those 
bright  September  days,  she  saw  a  poor  woman  sitting  on  a  door 
step  with  a  basket  full  of  small  penny  nosegays  of  autumn 
flowers.  Ruth  stood  still  before  the.  basket  to  look  and  admire. 
She  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  hunt  over  the  meadow 
banks  in  spring  for  violets  and  primroses,  or  gather  the  yellow 
daffodil  and  beautiful  anemone  from  the  woods,  or  the  sweet 
and  frail  ^vild  rose  from  its  thorny  stem  in  the  hedge  ;  she  had 
Bometimes  plucked  a  daisy  from  the  grass,  but  this  was  the  only 


.  MINISTEBING     CHILDREN.  9 

flower  that  Ruth  had  ever  gathered.  And  now  she  stood  to 
look  upon  the  woman's  basket  full  of  nosegays  of  garden 
flowers.  While  she  stood  looking,  a  mother  and  her  Kttle  girJ 
passed  by. 

•^  Oh  !  mamma,"  said  the  little  girl,  "  look  at  those  flowers  !" 

"  A  penny  a  nosegay,  ma'am  ;  only  a  penny  a  nosegay  !"  said 
the  poor  woman,  holding  out  some  of  her  flowers. 

"  Do  you  wish  for  a  nosegay,  Jane  ?"  asked  the  mother  of  her 
little  girl. 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  mamma." 

Ruth  thought  how  happy  that  little  girl  was  to  have  a  nose- 
gay of  her  own !  she  watched  her  take  it ;  and  then  the  mo- 
ther and  her  little  girl  went  on,  and  Ruth  went  slowly  the  other 
way  to  her  home.  But  as  soon  as  the  little  girl  had  left  the 
basket  of  flowers,  she  said,  "Mamma,  did  you  see  that  poor 
child  who  looked  so  at  the  flowers  ?" 

"  Yes,  Jane,  do  you  think  she  wanted  a  nosegay  ?" 

"  O,  mamma,  will  you  buy  her  one  ?" 

"  I  have  not  another  penny  with  me,  or  I  would." 

"  Do  you  think  she  woidd  hke  me  to  give  her  mine,  then, 
mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,  suppose  you  do ;  I  dare  say  she  very  seldom  has  a 
flower." 

"  Then  I  will ;  mamma,  shall  we  go  back  ?"  The  little  girl 
looked  back,  and  saw  Ruth  walking  slowly  away. 

"  O,  mamma,  she  will  be  gone  !" 

The  little  girl  did  not  like  to  leave  her  mother's  side,  so  they 
walked  quickly  back  together,  till  they  overtook  Ruth,  and  then 
the  little  girl  gave  her  the  flowers ;  the  bright  color  (jame  into 
the  cheeks  of  little  Ruth  as  she  curtsied  and  took  the  flowers ; 
and  then  she  set  oflf  to  run  with  them  home;  she  could  not 
run  far,  but  she  walked  fast,  and  looked  at  them  all  the  way  she 

1^ 


10  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

went.  "  Mamma,  did  you  see  how  fast  that  little  girl  ran  with 
her  flowers  ?"  asked  Jane. 

"  I  dare  say  she  wanted  to  take  them  home,"  said  her  mother. 

And  so  that  ministering  child  parted  with  her  nosegay  for 
the  little  girl,  who  had  never  gathered  any  flower  but  a  da\sy. 
Ruth  soon  reached  home  with  her  flowers ;  and  first  she  went 
to  the  poor  sick  child,  and  she  said,  "  See  what  beautiful  flowers 
I  have  got !  A  lady  bought  them  in  the  street,  and  her  little 
girl  gave  them  all  to  me  !  I  will  give  you  that  beauty  !"  And 
Ruth  pulled  out  the  only  rose  from  the  nosegay,  and  put  it  into 
the  httle  thin  hand  of  the  dying  child.  "  0  how  sweet  it 
smells !"  said  the  poor  sick  child  ;  and  she  lay  on  her  hard 
pillow  and  the  rose  in  her  hand — the  only  gift  she  had  had 
to  gladden  her,  except  food,  since  she  had  lain  ill  in  her  bed. 

"  Jesus,  our  Saviour,  made  the  flowers  !"  said  Ruth.  "  Miss 
Wilson  says  it  was  Jesus  made  every  flower  to  grow  out  of  the 
ground." 

"  How  kind  He  must  be  !"  said  the  dying  child. 

Then  Ruth  took  the  rest  of  her  flowers  up  to  her  mother, 
and  they  were  put  in  water  to  live  many  days. 

Ruth  used  to  go  in  often  to  see  the  poor  sick  child,  and  tell 
her  stories  from  the  Bible,  and  sing  her  hymns  when  she  had 
the  baby  with  her.  But  one  cold  November  day,  when  she 
came  into  the  house  from  school,  the  poor  child's  mother  came 
crying  from  her  room,  and  said  to  her,  "  0 !  I  am  so  glad  you 
are  come  !  I  thought  I  must  have  come  after  you  ;  my  poor 
child's  d}nng,  and  she  keeps  asking  for  you."  Ruth  went  in 
and  stood  by  the  bed,  and  the  dying  child  said,  "  Dear  Ruth,  I 
am  quite  happy.  I  love  you  very  much  ;  and  I  want  you  to 
sing  that  about  '  Those  great  drops  of  blood  Jesus  shed  at 
even-tide.' "  Ruth  sang  it  as  well  as  she  could,  but  she  was 
ready  to  cry 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  11 

"  I  want  you  to  sing  it  over  and  over,  as  you  do  to  the  babe," 
said  the  dying  child. 

Euth  sang  it  two  or  three  times,  and  then  she  stopped  ;  the 
poor  child  had  shut  her  eyes,  and  seemed,  asleep,  but  she  soon 
opened  them  again,  and  said,  "  O  do  sing  about  '  Jesus  let  me 
to  Thy  bosom  fly ;' "  and  while  Ruth  sang,  and  the  mother 
stood  weeping  by,  the  little  child  fell  asleep,  and  died.  Ruth 
cried  for  her  httle  friend,  and  missed  her  very  much.  But  now 
the  child's  poor  mother  said  she  wanted  Ruth  to  comfort  her 
up,  as  she  had  done  her  poor  child ;  and  she  begged  Ruth  to 
read  to  her,  and  tell  her  those  beautiful  stories,  for  she  coula 
not  read  herself.  And  so  Ruth  became  the  poor  widow's  little 
comforter. 

When  we  see  a  child  dressed  neat  and  warm  in  her  school 
dress,  we  often  think  she  is  well  taken  care  of;  but  it  is  not 
always  so ;  and  sometimes  the  little  school  girl  or  boy  is  much 
more  hungry  and  faint,  than  the  child  who  begs  his  food  in  the 
streets.  We  cannot  tell  how  it  really  is  with  poor  children,  or 
poor  men  and  women,  unless  we  visit  them  in  their  homes. 
Miss  Wilson  had  often  been  to  see  little  Ruth,  so  she  knew  all 
her  sorrows,  and  she  comforted  and  often  fed  the  httle  girl,  and 
loved  her  very  much.  Btit  there  was  another  child  who  went 
to  the  same  school,  and  wore  the  same  neat  dress,  and  stood  in 
the  same  class  as  Ruth,  but  she  had  no  comforter ;  her  name 
was  Patience.  She  lived  like  Ruth,  in  one  room,  up  a  dark 
staircase  ;  but  she  had  no  mother,  like  Ruth ;  her  mother  died 
when  she  was  an  infant ;  and  poor  Patience  had  never  had  any 
one  to  love  or  comfort  her.  Her  father  was  a  bad  and  cruel 
man ;  Patience  had  been  taken  care  of  by  an  elder  sister,  but 
her  sister  was  gone  quite  away  from  her  home,  and  she  lived 
alone  with  her  father.  She  came  to  school  every  day,  but  she 
generally  came  late ;  she  had    earned   to  read  there,  but  she 


12  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

hardly  ever  knew  her  lessons ;  and  she  never  answere  1  when 
asked  the  reason.  She  was  very  small,  and  very  thin.;  and 
thejady  who  came  to  the  school  never  saw  her  laugh,  or  smile, 
or  cry ;  she  always  looked  upon  the  ground,  her  I'ps  were 
pressed  together,  and  she  seldom  answered  when  spoken  to. 
Miss  Wilson,  the  lady  at  the  school,  thought  she  did  not  care 
about  any  thing ;  she  had  never  been  to  see  her  in  her  home, 
she  thought  it  was  no  use  to  go  and  see  a  child  who  seemed 
not  to  care  for  any  thing ;  so  she  did  not  kaow  the  sorrows  of 
the  little  girl,  and  therefore  she  did  not  try  to  comfort  her : 
nothing  seemed  to  amuse  or  interest  her,  she  looked  with  the 
same  dull  eyes  on  all.  Poor  Patience  had  no  comforter,  no 
blessed  ministering  child  had  been  yet  to  her.  One  day  as  Pa 
tience  was  walking  to  school,  a  little  companion  came  and 
walked  by  her  side — a  rosy-faced  child,  eating  bread  and  butter, 
finishing  her  breakfast  on  the  way  to  school.  Poor  Patience 
had  had  no  food  that  morning,  she  would  have  been  so  thank- 
ful for  part  of  the  child's  bread  and  butter ;  but  she  did  not  ask 
for  any,  and  when  they  reached  the  school,  the  child  threw  all 
she  had  left  of  it  to  a  fat  black  goat  who  lived  at  a  stable  close 
by.  The  black  goat  tossed  his  head,  and  eat  it  up.  Then  pool 
Patience  said,  "  0  Nancy,  how  glad  I  should  be  of  the  food  you 
waste  !"  and  she  stood  watching  the  black  goat  eating  up  the 
bread  and  butter.  But  Nancy  was  not  like  little  Ruth,  she  was 
not  a  ministering  child,  and  she  ran  up  the  steps  into  the 
school,  and  thought  no  more  of  her  bread  and  butter,  and  hei 
little  hungry  school-fellow. 


CHAPTER    II. 

**AEd  If  til  ere  be  any  other  commandment,  it  is  briefly  comprehended  in  till*  Bay- 
ing, namely,  Tliou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself." — ^Kom.  xiii.  9. 

TT  was  a  large  old  town  in  wliich  little  Ruth  and  Patience 
-*-  dwelt ;  there  were  streets  broad  and  narrow,  long  winding 
streets,  and  short  ones  that  cut  across  from  one  long  one  to 
another ;  old  churches  stood  about  the  town,  and  new  ones 
were  built  among  the  new-built  houses ;  there  was  a  busy 
market,  a  town-hall,  and  shops  large  and  small  ;  to  which 
the  country  people  came  from  far  and  near.  In  one  of  the 
broad  streets,  at  the  comer  of  a  short  and  narrow  one,  there 
stood  a  large  grocer's  shop.  Tea  and  coffee,  white  sugar 
and  brown,  dried  fruits  and  spices,  candles  and  sugar-candy — 
all  sorts  of  things  that  grocers  sell,  were  sold  at  that  cor- 
ner-shop. Mr.  Mansfield  was  the  grocer's  name  ;  and  many 
a  step  passed  in  at  that  shop-door  when  no  purchase  was  to 
be  made,  for  there  was  no  good  cause  in  all  the  town  that 
had  not  some  interest  in  Mr.  Mansfield's  heart — and,  for  the 
most  part,  in  his  shop  also,  where  gold  and  silver  found  a  ready 
way  out  as  well  as  in.  The  rule  of  weight  in  that  shop 
seemed  to  be,  ""Good  measure,  pressed  down,  and  shaken  to- 
gether, and  running  over."  The  poor  people  from  far  and 
near,  had  all  a  fancy  for  that  corner-shop ;  no  one  ever  asked 
why ;  perhap?  there  was  no  need,  where  every  one  felt  the 
same. 


14  M1NISTERI^G     CHILDREN. 

Behind  tlie  shop  there  was  a  parlor,  where  Mrs.  Mansfield 
usually  sat,  because  it  was  easy  for  Mr.  Mansfield  to  step  in 
there,  and  rest  himself  a  little  when  opportunity  ofiered.  It 
was  Mrs.  Mansfield  and  her  little  daughter  Jane  who  passed 
by,  when  Ruth  was  looking  at  the  flowers.  Jane  was  the 
ministering  child  who  had  made  little  Ruth  so  happy  with 
her  nosegay.  Little  Jane  had  several  -brothers  and  a  baby 
Bister.  Their  nurse  was  a  tall,  grave  woman  ;  she  never  played 
with  them,  never  sang  to  the  baby,  and  yet  they  were  all  as 
merry  and  happy  as  children  could  wish  to  be ;  their  hap- 
piness was  her  happiness,  and  their  infant  troubles  her  care  to 
Boothe ;  and  just  at  the  right  time  she  could  always  think  of 
and  say  the  right  thing.  The  nurse  did  not  undertake  to  teach 
the  children  in  her  charge  any  lessons  out  of  books ;  her  own 
reading  was  not  of  the  most  perfect  kind ;  but  they  learnt 
some  lessons  from  her  heart  and  life,  no  after-time  could  eflface. 
One  lesson  that  they  learned  from  their  nurse  was,  reverence 
for  old  age.  How  quick  those  little  children  were  to  see  an 
old  man  or  an  old  woman  coming  down  the  street,  when  they 
were  walking  out ;  to  step  ofi"  the  narrow  pavement  to  leave 
them  room,  while  they  would  look  up  at  them  with  kindness 
and  interest,  and  be  sure  to  see  in  a  moment  if  any  thing 
could  be  done  to  help  them.  Another  lesson  these  little  chil- 
dren learned  from  their  nurse,  was  truth  ;  their  nurse  had 
never  any  thing  to  conceal ;  she  always  did  and  said  the  same 
in  their  mother's  absence  as  in  her  presence,  so  that  the 
children  always  believed  their  mother  and  their  nurse  to  have 
one  way  in  every  thing.  And  the  children  were  all  familiar 
with  the  sight  of  the  large  Bible  with  its  buckram  cover,  from 
which  their  nurse  sat  to  read — learning,  with  earnest  care,  the 
way  to  heaven. 

Some  hours  of  every  day  little  Jane  passed  with  her  mother, 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  15 

.earning  to  read  and  work.  One  day,  when  the  reading  was 
done,  before  the  work-box  was  opened,  Mrs.  Mansfield  said 
to  Jane,  "  I  must  go  out  to  attend  a  penny-club  meeting ; 
would  you  like  to  go  with  me  ?"  Jane  was  delighted  to 
go,  and  ran  up  to  nurse  to  put  on  her  things.  "  I  don't 
know  where  mamma  is  going,"  said  Jane ;  "  I  could  not  un- 
derstand." "  I  know,"  replied  nurse  ;  "  it 's  the  penny-club 
meeting  to-day ;  that 's  where  your  mamma  is  going."  "  What 
is  that  ?"  asked  Jane.  "  It 's  for  the  poor,"  replied  nurse. 
Kow  little  Jane  had  so  often  heard  her  parents  speaking  of  the 
poor,  and  seen  her  mother  working  hard ;  and  when^  she  asked 
her,  "  Why  do  you  work  so  long,  mamma  ?"  she  would  say, 
"  For  the  poor ;"  that  Jane  had  no  doubt  the  poor  belonged 
to  her  parents ;  and,  therefore,  that  they  belonged  also  to  her ; 
and  she  always  listened  with  interest  to  all  that  was  said  about 
them. 

"  Are  you  going  for  the  poor,  mamma  ?"  asked  little  Jane, 
as  she  set  out  with  her  hand  in  her  mother's.  "Yes,  my 
dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Mansfield ;  "  your  parents  can  buy  you 
all  the  clothes  you  want,  but  there  are  a  great  many  poor 
people  who  can  hardly  tell  how  to  feed  their  children,  and 
they  can  not  possibly  buy  them  warm  clothing  ;  so  some 
richer  people  said,  that  if  these  poor  people  would  lay  by 
one  penny  a  week,  for  a  whole  year,  they  would  put  another 
penny  to  it ;  and  then,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  these  poor  peo- 
ple would  have  all  these  pennies  put  together,  which  would 
make  many  shillings  for  them  to  take  to  the  shop  and  buy 
warm  clothes  for  their  poor  little  children.  But  this  is  the  Town 
Hall,  where  we  are  going,  and  you  must  try  and  listen  to  what 
is  said." 

Jane  sat  on  a  step  at  the  top  of  the  room,  by  the  bench  where 
her  mother  was  seated,  and  she  looked  up  at  the  speaker,  and 


16  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

listened  to  all  he  said.  Before  the  speaker  had  done,  he  looked 
down  to  where  little  Jane  was  sitting,  and  said,  "  Perhaps  there 
are  some  children  here  who  could  lay  by  one  penny  a  week,  to 
clothe  some  poor  little  boy  or  girl,  who  has  no  warm  dress  like 
their  own.  Would  it  not  give  them  more  pleasure  than  spend- 
ing their  money  on  themselves  ?"  Jane  heard  and  understood 
what  the  speaker  was  saying,  and  she  thought  it  was  exactly 
what  she  could  do,  because  she  received  from  her  mother  a 
penny  every  Saturday  to  spend  as  she  hked  best ;  but  she  did 
not  say  any  thing  then  to  her  mother,  because  she  had  been 
told  at  other  meetings,  that  she  must  sit  still  and  not  speak. 

After  the  meeting,  Mrs.  Mansfield  talked  long  with  the  ladies 
present ;  little  Jane  held  fast  by  her  mother's  hand,  which  she 
tried  to  draw  with  secret  impatience  towards  the  door  ;  at  last 
Mrs.  Mansfield  said,  "  Good  morning,"  to  the  ladies,  and  went 
down  the  Town  Hall  steps  alone  with  her  little  girl. 

"  0  mamma  !  mamma !  would  not  my  penny  do  for  the  poor  ?'' 
asked  Jane. 

"  Not  one  penny,  dear ;  one  penny  would  not  do  much  in 
clothing  a  child." 

"  No,  mamma,  not  one  penny ;  but  one  penny  every  week  for 
a  whole  year,  like  what  you  told  me  as  we  came." 

"  Yes,  that  would  meet  some  poor  mother's  penny,  and  clothe 
her  child." 

"  May  I  give  it  then,  mamma  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  wish  for  it,  after  a  little  while  ; — you 
could  buy  no  ribbons  for  your  doll,  or  sweatmeats  and  cakes  for 
a  feast ;  nor  could  you  go  to  the  toy-shop  for  a  whole  year,  and 
a  year  is  a  long  time." 

"  No,  mamma ;  but  the  httle  child  who  has  no  warm  clothes !" 

"  Yes,  y  Du  would  make  the  poor  child  warm  and  happy ;  you 
would  be  able  to  help  buy  new  flannel,  and  white  calico,  and 


MINISTERING      CHILDREN.  •       17 

pretty  blue  print  with  wMte  spots  upoi-  it,  and  the  poor  mother 
would  see  her  child  rim  about  warm  and  neat,  as  I  see  you." 

"  0,  mamma,  I  wish  Saturday  was  come  !" 

"  But  what  if  you  grow  tired,  Jane,  and  begin  to  want  the 
things  you  have  been  used  to  buy  for  play  ?  I  can  not  help 
you ;  your  father  and  I  have  taken  all  the  penny  tickets  we 
can  afford ;  if  you  begin  you  must  go  on,  or  you  must  disap- 
point the  child  1" 

"  I  do  not  want  any  more  toys  or  sweetmeats,  mamma,  I  will 
not  disappoint  the  child  ;  may  I  try  ?" 

"  Yes ;  indeed  you  shall  if  you  wish.  I  hoped  to  have  found 
some  lady  at  the  Town  Hall  who  would  have  been  able  to  help 
a  poor  old  woman  who  came  to  me  yesterday  to  ask  for  her 
little  grand-daughter,  when  all  my  tickets  were  promised,  but 
now  it  seems  my  own  little  girl  will  be  her  friend  !" 

"  0  yes,  mamma,  how  glad  I  am,  shall  I  see  the  little  girl, 
does  she  live  in  the  town  ?" 

"  No,  she  lives  in  a  village  seven  miles  off ;  she  is  a  little 
orphan,  her  father  and  mother  are  both  dead,  and  her  poor  old 
grandmother  has  taken  her  home  to  live  with  her.  Her  grand- 
mother said  she  was  coming  into  the  town  to-morrow,  and  I 
told  her  to  call  on  me,  for  I  hoped  to  get  her  a  ticket,  so  you 
can  see  her ;  I  do  not  know  whether  the  little  girl  will  be  with 
her." 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  little  girl's  name  is,  mamma  ?" 

"  No,  but  we  can  ask  her  grandmother  to-morrow.  Now  I 
B,m  going  into  this  shop  to  buy  you  some  winter  stockings :" 
Six  pair  of  lamb's-wool  stockings — how  warm  they  looked  1 

"  Mamma,"  said  little  Jane,  when  they  left  the  sh^p,  "  may  L 
give  my  old  socks  to  the  little  girl  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  they  would  not  be  large  enough,"  replied  Mrs. 
Mansfield,  "  but  I  have  some  worsted  stockings  of  your  brcthei 


18  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Eklward's  tliat  would  be  sure  to  fit  her  :  if  you  like  to  spend  a 
little  of  your  play-time  every  day  in  mending  them  neatly 
enough  to  be  worn,  then  you  shall  have  them  to  give  to  the 
little  girl." 

"Do  you  not  think  her  grandmother  could  mend  them, 
mamma,  as  you  do  for  us  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  she  could,  but  she  is  sure  to  have  plenty  of 
other  things  to  do,  and  I  could  not  let  you  give  to  the  poor  that 
which  you  had  taken  no  pains  to  have  ready  for  use  and  com- 
fort." 

"  But  I  do  not  know  how  to  mend  stockings,  mamma." 

"  It  is  not  very  difficult ;  you  could  soon  learn  how  to  do  it, 
and  I  think  you  would  be  very  happy  working  for  the  poor  little 
orphan  girl." 

"  Yes,  I  should,  is  it  as  hard  as  stitching,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  No,  the  threads  are  not  so  fine." 

"  Shall  I  begin  to-day,  mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  like,  I  will  find  the  stockings  for  you  as  soon  as 
I  go  home." 

"  Nurse  !  nurse  !"  said  little  Jane,  running  in,  "  I  am  going  to 
help  buy  warm  clothes  for  a  poor  little  girl  with  my  penny  every 
week  ;  and  mamma  is  going  to  give  me  all  Edward's  old  warm 
stockings,  if  I  mend  them  up  quite  neat." 

"  Well,  that 's  a  good  beginning,"  said  nurse,  "  if  you  do  but 
hold  fast  to  it." 

And  so,  in  one  short  hour,  little  Jane  had  stepped  into  a  world 
of  thought  and  feeling  that  seemed  at  first  to  hide  from  sight 
much  that  before  had  power  to  please  ;  it  was  but  at  first — the 
lighter  tones  of  childhood's  merriment  soon  blended  with  the 
deeper  echoes  of  the  heart's  responsive  sympathy — and  her  life 
yielded  their  mingled  harmony. 

That  afternoon  little  Jane  began  the  stocking-mending  in  he/ 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN,  19 

play  nours,  seated  at  her  mother's  side.  Affeei  a  while  she 
sighed  and  said,  "  It  is  rather  hard  at  first,  mamma." 

"  So  are  many  good  things  at  first,  my  child  ;  would  you  like 
to  give  up  doing  them,  and  learn  when  you  are  a  little  older 
to  mend  stockings  for  yourself,  instead  of  learning  now  for  the 
poor  ?" 

"  0  no,  mamma !  how  nice  it  will  be  when  I  have  done  one 
pair !     May  I  keep  them  in  my  own  box  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  may  have  each  pair  as  you  finish  them.  You 
shall  fold  them  up  and  keep  them  yourself;  but  if  you  get  tired 
and  wish  to  give  up  doing  them,  you  have  only  to  tell  me  ;  I 
could  not  let  you  give  up  if  I  were  teaching  you  for  yourself^ 
but  no  one  should  work  unwillingly  for  the  poor." 

"  I  shall  never  like  to  give  it  up,  mamma  ;  I  do  not  mind  if  it 
Is  a  little  hard." 

And  Jane  worked  busily,  on,  till  her  mother  said,  "  Now  you 
have  done  quite  enough  for  one  day,  and  quite  as  well  as  I 
could  expect ;  you  can  go  to  the  nursery  and  play  with  your 
brother  till  tea."  And  merry  were  the  shouts  of  the  happy 
child  as  she  ran,  fresh  from  her  self-chosen  service  of  love, 
across  the  nursery-floor  with  her  httle  brother  at  play. 

At  tea  Mr.  Mansfield  heard  what  Jane  intended  to  do  with 
her  pennies — he  quite  approved ;  but  when  she  climbed  upon 
his  knee,  before  her  mother  took  her  to  bed,  he  smiled  and  said, 
*'  Perhaps  my  little  daughter  thinks  her  father  can  find  her  can- 
dies without  pennies  to  buy  them  ?" 

"  O  no,  papa,  I  don't  want  any  more  ;  I  shall  be  so  happy 
when  I  have  made  the  little  girl  quite  warm  !" 

"  So  you  will,  my  Jane,  and  so  is  every  one  happy  who  tries 
from  the  heart  to  help  the  poor  and  needy;"  and  with  his 
blessing  he  sent  her  to  her  rest.  Jane  went  to  her  pillow  full 
of  thoughts  of  her  little  unknown  friend.     Already  she  loved 


20  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

the  oi-phan  her  hand  was  helping  to  clothe  ;  she  longed  ibr  the 
next  day,  that  she  might  get  on  with  the  warm  stockings  for 
her  feet,  and  then  she  remembered  she  was  to  see  the  old  grand- 
mother who  would  put  the  penny  to  meet  her  penny  ;  her  hap- 
py thoughts  blended  in  bright  confusion,  till,  like  folded  flowers 
at  night,  they  closed  their  leaves,  and  all  were  lost  in  deep  and 
gentle  slumber. 

The  next  morning  Jane  gave  many  a  look  from  the  nursery 
window  on  the  street  below,  and  nurse  was  often  called  to  see 
whether  any  one  of  those  who  came  in  sight  could  be  the 
grandmother.  At  last  a  knock  at  the  street-door,  then  her 
mother's  call  to  her,  and  Jane  came  down,  stopping  a  minute  at 
the  parlor-door,  it  stood  open  a  little  way,  and  Jane  could  see 
the  old  woman  and  the  little  girl.  Jane  ventured  slowly  in  and 
stood  close  by  her  mother's  side. 

"  Well,  Jane,"  said  her  mother,  "  this  is  your  little  friend.  It 
is  my  little  daughter,  Mrs.  Jones,  who  wishes  to  put  her  penny 
to  meet  yours.     What  is  your  grand-daughter's  name  ?" 

"  Mercy,  ma'am,  Mercy  Jones.  Make  a  curtsey,  Mercy,  to 
the  young  lady,  and  say.  Thank  you." 

Jane  hid  her  face  behind  her  mother,  and  hoped  nobody 
would  say  any  more  to  her ;  till  after  a  time  her  mother  said, 
"  Now  you  may  go  back  to  the  nursery,  Jane."  Jane  stole  a 
look  at  little  Mercy,  as  she  went  slowly  out,  and  she  felt  as  if 
she  cared  more  about  that  poor  little  girl  than  all  her  play ; 
and,  going  back  to  the  nursery,  she  watched  till  they  went 
away — the  tall  old  woman  and  the  little  girl.  Then  the  sound 
of'  her  brother  at  his  play  broke  again  upon  her  ear,  and  she 
ran  to  join  him. 

In  two  days  more  the  first  pair  of  stockings  were  mended. 
Jane  learned  how  to  fold  them  up ;  then  she  carried  them 
safely  to  her  own  little  trunk — all  her  treasures  were  taken  out, 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  21 

and  the  stockings  put  in  first,  safe  on  one  side  of  the  box, 
plenty  of  room  was  left  for  the  other  five  pair  near  them,  and 
then  the  other  contents  of  the  box  were  piled  on  its  other  side ; 
and  when  at  last  Jane  had  shut  the  lid  and  turned  away,  ske 
came  back  once  more  to  see  again  how  nice  they  looked — all 
ready  for  the  orphan  child !  It  was  the  first  labor  of  her 
hands  for  the  poor  and  needy ;  a  child's  large  feeling  on  so 
small  occasion  may  win  a  smile  ;  but  the  occasion  had,  for  the 
first  time,  touched  the  deep  chord  of  human  sympathy  within 
her  heart,  and  the  vibration  was  long  and  full. 

Weeks  passed  away,  and  when  the  snow  of  New  Year's  day 
lay  thick  upon  the  ground,  the  stockings  were  all  done — six 
folded  pairs  of  mended  stockings  in  Jane's  own  trunk,  all  ready 
for  the  orphan  child.  Then  came  another  visit  from  the  old 
grandmother,  but  not  from  the  little  Mercy.  "  Bless  you.  Miss," 
said  the  old  grandmother,  as  she  took  the  piled-up  stockings 
from  Jane's  trembling  hands,  "  would  not  Mercy  have  hked  to 
come !  but  her  poor  feet  are  so  bad  with  the  chilblains,  she 
can  't  put  them  to  the  ground  ;  but  won  't  they  soon  be  well 
when  she  has  run*  about  a  bit  in  these  warm  stockings  !  why, 
they  are  the  most  beautiful  stockings  that  ever  I  saw,  and 
enough  of  tliem  to  last  her  almost  till  she  grows  an  old 
woman !" 

"  They  would  not  fit  her  then,"  said  Httle  Jane. 

"  No,  dear,  no  more  they  would,  but  I  can  biggen  them  a  bit 
when  they  get  too  small ;  I  understand  all  that  sort  of  thing ;  I 
was  always  brought  up  to  it." 

"  Will  they  really  make  her  feet  well  ?"  asked  Jane,  remem- 
bering the  old  woman's  words  to  that  eflfect. 

"  Yes,  dear,  that  they  will,  the  sight  of  them  almost  I  think, 
for  she  has  hardly  had  a  bit  of  stocking  under  her  boots  all  this 
hard  winter ;  and  the  boots  ai*e  got  stiff,  and  her  feet  are  tender, 


12  MINISTEBTNG     CHILDREN. 

for  when  her  poor  father  was  alive  she  was  well  clothed.  I  do 
all  I  can  for  her,  and  she  never  complains,  but  I  am  often  afraid 
she  feels  the  difference." 

"  They  are  all  mended,"  said  Jane  ;  "  Mamma  says  they  will 
do  quite  well ;  I  did  not  know  how  to  mend  stockings  before." 

"  Well,  dear,  it  will  be  none  the  worse  for  you  that  you 
learned  it  for  the  poor  and  fatherless.  I  think  I  see  the  look 
of  my  Mercy  when  I  show  them  to  her !  I  know  her  first 
word  will  be,  '  O  grandmother,  now  I  can  soon  go  to  the 
Sunday  school  again  !'  She  is  wonderfully  fond  of  her  school 
since  Miss  Clifibrd  came  to  teach  in  it,  and  Miss  Clifford  takes 
a  wonderful  deal  of  notice  of  her,  and  has  been  to  see  her ;  she 
did  not  know  the  poor  dear  had  not  a  stocking  to  her  foot, 
or  that  would  soon  have  been  there." 

"  Could  you  not  have  told  her  ?"  asked  Jane. 

"  Why,  no.  Miss,  I  never  tell ;  I  say  always,  if  it  comes  it 
oomes,  and  I  know  where  it  comes  'from  ;  but  if  I  asked,  why 
it  might  be  another  thing !" 

Mrs.  Mansfield,  who  had  left  little  Jane  alone  with  the  old 
woman,  came  back  just  in  time  to  hear  this  last  sentence,  and 
to  see  the  earnest  inquiring  look  June  fixed  on  the  old  woman, 
whose  reply  she  had  not  been  able  to  understand.  Mrs.  Jones 
shortly  after  took  her  leave,  and  Jane  was  left  alone  with 
her  mother. 

"  Did  you  understand  what  Mrs.  Jones  was  saying  when  I 
came  in,  Jane  ?" 

"  No,  mamma,  what  did  she  mean  ?  why  did  she  not  tell  the 
lady  about  her  little  grand-daughter  having  no  stockings  ?" 

"  1  think  you  will  understand  her  meaning  if  I  put  it  in  my 
words.  Poor  Mrs.  Jones  meant  that  she  told  her  wants  only 
to  God,  and  then  if  help  came  to  relieve  those  wants,  she  knew 
that  it  was  God  who  sent  it  to  her,  by  some  earthly  friend 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  23 

The  honest  aiid  industrious  poor,  who  have  been  accustomed  to 
earn  all  they  receive,  do  not  often  like  to  ask  of  any  one  but  God.'' 

"  But,  mamma,  if  they  do  not  tell,  how  can  it  be  known?" 

"  We  must  ask  God  to  teach  us  to  know  the  wants  of  the 
poor.  And  if  we  really  wish  to  help  and  comfort  them,  God 
will  put  it  into  our  hearts  to  supply  the  wants  He  knows  they 
have.  You  did  not  know  that  little  Mercy  Jones  had  no  stock- 
ings, but  you  wished  to  help  and  comfort  her,  and  you  were 
led  to  prepare  the  very  thing  she  wanted  most.  God  knows 
all  the  wants  of  the  poor,  and  He  can  put  the  thought  into  our 
hearts  of  that  which  He  knows  will  be  best  for  them." 

little  Jane  was  silent,  lost  in  the  thrilling  awe  of  one  who 
felt  herself  to  have  been  chosen  and  taught  of  God  to  supply  the 
want  she  had  not  known.  Her  mother  knew  the  power  such 
first  impressions  have  to  train  the  heart's  young  faith,  and  with 
her  arm  round  little  Jane,  she  sat  in  silence  too. 

"  Then,  mamma,"  at  last  said  Jane,  "  I  can  never  know  unless 
God  teaches  me  ?" 

"  God  is  your  heavenly  Father,  Jane,  and  He  will  teach  you 
all  He  wishes  you  to  know  if  you  love  to  learn  of  Him." 

"  But  how  will  He  teach  me  to  help  the  poor,  mamma  ?" 

"  God  will  teach  you  sometimes  by  putting  the  thought  in 
your  heart ;  but  He  will  also  teach  you  in  other  ways  :  has  He 
not  given  you  an  eye  and  an  ear  ?" 

"Yes,  mamma." 

"  Then  He  meant  you  to  use  them ;  do  you  not  often  find 
out  what  I  want  without  my  having  to  tell  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  because  I  live  with  you." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  might  get  many  little  girls,  and  grown  up 
people  also,  to  live  with  me,  and  they  would  not  find  out  the 
things  I  often  want,  without  my  asking,  as  you  do.  Is  it  only 
because  you  live  with  me  I" 


24  MINISTERING     CHILDRSN. 

"  0,  no,  mamma,  it  is  because  I  love  you  as  weL  !" 

"  Yes,  dear  Jane,  this  is  tlie  secret :  you  love  me,  and  tlier^' 
fore  you  find  out  my  wishes  and  wants  as  far  as  your  power 
permits ;  and  if  you  love  God,  you  will  quickly  learn  how  to 
serve  Him,  according  to  His  holy  will ;  and  if  you  love  the 
poor,  you  will  be  sure  to  find  out  their  wants  and  how  to  com- 
fort them." 

The  clock  struck  eleven.  "  0  mamma,"  exclaimed  Jane,  "  I 
have  not  done  my  lessons,  and  it  is  eleven  o'clock !" 

"Never  mind  that  to-day,  my  dear ;  perhaps  we  have  been 
learning  what  lesson-books  could  not  teach  us ;  you  can  do 
your  writing  now."  And  well  it  was  for  that  young  mind  not 
at  once  to  be  pressed  with  lessons.  It  had  felt  and  thought 
enough  for  one  morning  of  its  early  years,  and  writing  was 
meiital  rest. 


CHAPTER    III. 

1/  ye  love  Me,  keep  my  commandments."— John  xIy.  1& 

rpHE  village  where  Mercy  lived  with  her  grandmother  wag 
-*-  seven  miles  distant  from  the  town  where  Mr.  Mansfield 
lived  and  Httle  Jane,  where  also  Hved  Patience  and  little  Ruth. 
The  village  church  stood  on  a  hill,  and  close  beside  it  the  cler- 
gyman's dwelling,  hid  among  trees.  There  was  a  large  and 
beautiful  house  in  the  village,  called  the  Hall,  where  the  Squire 
lived  ;  and  Miss  Clifford,  httle  Mercy's  friend,  was  the  Squire's 
daughter.  Miss  Clifford  loved  the  poor  who  lived  around  her 
house  ;  she  had  known  and  loved  them  from  the  time  when  she 
was  but  a  Httle  child,  and  they  loved  her  ;  for  the  heart  of  the 
poor  can  give  as  pure  a  response  to  hallowed  interest  and  love 
as  the  heart  of  the  rich.  Miss  Clifford  had  a  white  pony  named 
Snowflake  ;  when  a  little  child,  she  often  rode  out  with  her 
father,  and  called  with  him  at  the  fanns,  and  sometimes  at  the 
cottages.  And  when  she  grew  older,  she  had  a  groom  of  her 
own  to  ride  out  with  her  every  day,  and  then  she  often  went 
alone  to  the  houses  of  the  poor.  She  used  to  carry  her  little 
Bible  with  her,  and  read  to  the  poor  old  people  who  could  not 
read  for  themselves :  the  very  sound  of  her  voice  seemed  to  com- 
fort them,  and  still  more  the  blessed  words  that  she  read ;  and 
feeble  old  people,  and  little  children  just  able  to  run  alone,  would 
learn  from  her  lips  the  holy  words  of  the  Bible — those  precious 
words  which  lead  all  who  love  them  to  heaven.    It  was  not  Mrs, 


26  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Clifford  who  had  taught  her  Uttle  daughter  to  visit-  the  poor. 
Mrs.  CHfford  felt  for  the  poor,  and  sent  them  gifts  at  Christmas ; 
but  she  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  love  the  poor  and  be  loved 
by  them,  for  she  had  never  been  among  them  herself ;  but  Mrs. 
Clifford  loved  the  word  of  God,  and  she  knew  what  was  written 
there  ;  so  she  was  happy  that  her  child  should  early  tread  the 
blessed  path  that  leads  amongst  the  homes  of  the  poor,  though 
she  felt  unable  to  visit  them  herself.  The  visits,  when  a  child, 
to  the  farm-houses,  and  sometimes  to  the  cottages,  with  her 
father,  might  have  been  one  means  of  leading  Miss  Clifford  to 
think  about  and  love  the  poor ;  but  that  could  not  have  been 
the  only  or  the  chief  reason.  The  poor  people,  who  had  no  one 
else  to  teach  them  as  she  did,  believed  that  God  had  put  it  into 
her  heart  to  be  their  comforter ;  and  this  reason  for  her  visits 
to  them,  and  her  care  and  love  for  them,  no  doubt  was  the  true 
one.  Miss  Clifford  had  no  sister,  but  she  had  a  brother  some 
few  years  younger  than  herself;  he  was  a  wild,  high-spirited 
boy,  with  a  generous  disposition ;  but  a  long  habit  of  pleasing 
himself  had  made  him  selfish  and  too  often  disobedient.  Mr 
Clifford  was  a  very  indulgent  father ;  he  allowed  Herbert — for 
Herbert  was  the  boy's  name  —  to  amuse  himself  just  as  he 
pleased,  to  spend  his  money  as  he  liked,  and  he  provided  for 
him  every  gratification  suitable  to  his  age  and  circumstances. 
But,  with  all  this  indulgence,  Herbert  was  never  allowed  in  a 
single  act  of  disobedience,  nor  was  he  ever  allowed  to  break 
through  any  rule  or  principle  of  justice  toward  others.  Herbert 
knew  that  if  the  lessons  that  his  tutor  required  him  to  prepare 
were  neglected,  his  father  would  never  admit  any  idle  excuse. 
The  rules  to  which  Herbert  was  subjected  by  his  father  were 
but  few  ;  but,  such  as  they  were,  they  might  never  be  broken  ; 
this  Herbert  knew ;  but  his  wild  spirits,  and  his  haste  after 
amusement,  led  him  sometimes  to  forget ;  and  then  he  would 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  27 

fancy  that  not  to  be  disobedience  wliicli  proved  to  be  so,  whei. 
tried  by  the  rule  of  his  kind  but  firm  parent.  Herbert  liac 
never  yet  known  what  it  was  to  be  a  ministering  child. 

Mr.  Clifford  w^as  a  <]^reat  favorite  amono^  his  tenants.  He  was 
no  less  firm  as  a  landlord  than  be  was  as  a  father ;  but  thee 
he  was  as  kind  and  considerate  as  he  was  firm.  No  rule  he 
made  was  allowed  to  be  trilled  with  ;  but  his  rules  were  simple 
and  few,  and  known  by  all  who  dwelt  on  his  estate  ;,  and  his 
tenants,  both  farmers  and  laborers,  learned  at  last  to  know  that 
he  made  their  interest  one  with  his  own.  His  feeling  wa5> 
strong  of  tlie  common  brotherhood  uniting  the  whole  human 
family,  and  made  itself  manifest,  whether  occasion  led  him  to 
speak  to  the  stone-breaker  on  the  road,  or  the  poorest  cottage- 
child.  Even  with  the  lowest  and  most  debased,  he  never  lost 
the  feeling  of  a  common  manhood,  with  all  that  it  involved  and 
demanded.  It  is  ever  those  who  best  know,  and  best  fill  their 
own  position,  who  can  most  readily  and  effectually  keep  all  with 
whom  they  have  intercourse,  each  one  in  his  own  .place.  Li 
retaining  ourselves,  and  regarding  in  others  the  simple  standing 
that  God  has  given,  there  is  a  native  dignity,  a  moral  elevation, 
which,  while  it  tends  to  set  aside  the  false  assumptions  of  pride, 
makes  a  constant  demand  on  the  efibrt  to  maintain  that  integ- 
rity, both  in  ourselves  and  others,  without  which  none  can  fill 
he  earthly  position  to  which  God  has  called  them. 

All  the  farms  in  the  village  were  the  property  of  Mr.  Cliftord, 
except  one  occupied  by  a  farmer  named  Smith,  whose  father 
and  gi-andfather  had  rented  the  same  farm  before  him.  Farmer 
Smith's  fields  were  kept  like  a  garden  for  neatness ;  and  every 
ear  of  the  wheat  that  waved  on  them  in  the  golden  harvest- 
time  was  sown  by  the  hands  of  the  village  children.  When 
brown  and  soft  October  came  to  mellow  earth  and  sky,  whei 
tihe  plow  had  turned  the  fields'  rich  mold,  and  the  heavy  roll 


28  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

had  pressed  the  long  ridges  flat,  and  the  wide-spreading  rake 
had  broken  the  hard  clods,  then  went  the  sowers  forth — fathers 
with  their  merry  children,  girls  and  boys,  all  whose  little  feet 
could  pace  the  fields  backward  and  forward,  and  not  grow 
weary,  whose  fingers  could  drop  the  precious  grain  from  the 
little  wooden  basket  held  on  their  left  arm,  three  grains  into 
each  hole,  all  these  might  go  ;  two  lines  following  their  fathers, 
who,  walking  backward,  made  two  holes  at  every  step  with  iron 
rods  in  their  hands :  following  as  fast  as  they  could  their  fa- 
ther's fast  steps,  and  stooping  low  as  they  followed,  they  dropped 
in  the  grain  with  their  little  fingers — thus  the  bread  that  was  to 
feed  thousands,  was  sown  by  the  hands  of  little  children.  While 
the  robin  sung  beside  them  on  the  yellow  branches  of  the  faded 
maple-tree,  and,  as  the  children  passed  it  by,  fiew  on  higher  up 
in  the  hedge-row,  and  perched  again  beside  them,  as  if  to  cheer 
their  work  with  its  song,  or  to  win  the  ear  of  childhood  for  its 
strain  of  gentle  mirth..  But  wheat-sowing,  like  all  other  things 
on  earth,  has  its  wintry  days ;  and  when  November  proves  damp 
and  cold,  the  wet  land  gets  heavy,  and  the  children  suffer. 
This  had  been  little  Mercy's  first  year  of  dropping  wheat.  "When 
her  parents  were  living,  Mercy  never  thought  of  being  among 
the  little  droppers ;  but  they  had  both  died  of  fever  in  ono 
year,  and  left  their  orphan  child  to  earn  her  bread  under  the 
care  of  her  kind  old  grandmother,  and  her  uncle  Jem — hei 
grandmother's  only  son,  who  lived  with  his  mother.  Mercy  had 
lived  three  years  with  her  grandmother,  and  now  she  thought 
it  a  pleasant  thing  to  go  and  work  under  the  blue  sky  in  the 
fresh-plowed  fields  ;  and  so  it  was  ;  but  when  the  wintry  rains 
came,  the  work  grew  heavy  for  her  slight  strength;  her  boots 
became  stiff  with  the  wet  land,  the  chilblains  settled  in  her  feet, 
and  when  the  dropping-time  was  over,  little  Mercy  was  laid  up, 
unable  to  walk ;  her  greatest  sorrow  being,  as  her  grandmother. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  29 

had  stated,  that  she  could  not  get  to  the  Sunday-scho(     where 
Miss  Clifford  now  taught. 

The  eldest  of  Farmer  Smith's  family  was  a  son  named  Wil- 
liam. William  seemed  to  know  and  love  every  foot  of  land 
on  the  farm,  every  tree  and  every  living  creature  there ;  but 
the  chief  favorites  were  a  dog  called  Rover,  and  a  young  horse 
named  Black  Beauty.  Black  Beauty  was  born  and  reared  on 
the  farm ;  when  a  foal  he  followed  William  like  a  dog,  and  now 
he  was  committed  to  AVilliam's  care,  and,  though  only  lately 
broken  in  and  full  of  spirit,  William  could  manage  him,  without 
whip'  or  rein,  by  the  sound  of  his  voice.  The  horse  was  a  beau- 
tiful creature,  and  Farmer  Smith  would  say  sometimes  that  if 
the  children  had  not  all  been  so  fond  of  the  horse,  he  must 
have  taken  one  of  the  many  high  ojSfers  he  had  had  for  him  ; 
but,  as  it  was,  he  made  his  children's  affection  for  the  creature 
a  cover  for  his  own,  and  a  fair  excuse  for  keeping  him.  Besides 
which,  Farmer  Smith  knew  that  the  last  thing  Mrs.  Smith  would 
approve,  would  be  to  see  the  horse  led  away ;  and  so,  in  conse- 
quence of  all  these  reasons  taken  together.  Black  Beauty  led  an 
easy  life,  with  none  but  familiar  and  kindly  voices  falling  on  his 
sensitive  ears.  Mr.  Smith's  next  son,  Joseph,  called  by  the  fam> 
ily  Joe,  was  very  quick  at  his  books  ;  therefore,  his  father  kept 
him  a  year  longer  than  he  would  otherwise  have  done,  as  a 
boarder  at  a  school  in  the  town  ;  but  it  was  considered  that  he 
had  now  learned  sufficient,  and  he  was  put  to  work  on  the  farm. 
The  younger  boys  were  Samson  and  Ted.  Rose,  the  only  girl, 
was  the  treasure  of  her  father's  heart,  and  the  light  of  his  life  ; 
he  had  her  named  Rose,  for  that  had  been  his  moth  sr's  name, 
and  he  said,  "  May  be,  if  she  has  the  name,  she  may  take  after 
the  nature  too,  and  my  mother  was  one  of  the  best  of  women — 
ask  the  poor  if  that  is  n't  true,  and  I  will  always  trust  them  for 
knowing  what  any  body  is  !"    Little  Rose  grew  up  among  the 


80  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

com,  aud  the  barley,  and  the  sweet-scented  beans — for  hex  band 
was  mostly  in  her  father's,  and  her  feet  trotting  by  his  side ; 
she  hunted  the  red-cup  moss  in  the  muddy  ditch,  her  little  feet 
at  the  top,  while  her  father  stood  at  the  bottom  ;  hers  were  the 
fii'st  rosy  nuts  gathered  from  the  hazel-tree,  when  glowing  au- 
tumn came  to  ripen  the  fruits  ;  she  called  the  wild  birds  all  her 
own,  and  her  displeasure  fell  on  any  one  who  dai'ed  to  take  the 
warm,  soft  nest  from  tree  or  hedge.  Rose  went,  when  very 
young,  to  the  village  day-school ;  there  she  formed  a  friendship 
with  little  Mercy,  and  was  learning  quite  enough  to  satisfy  her 
father ;  but  Mrs.  Smith  was  not  so  easily  satisfied.  Mi-s.  Smith 
said  they  had  but  one  girl,  and  she  should  always  consider  that 
they  had  been  very  much  to  blame  if  they  did  not  give  her  a 
good  education,  and  a  boarding-school  was  the  place  to  which 
she  ought  to  be  sent ;  that  if  she  were  willing  to  part  with  the 
child,  she  did  not  see  why  Mr.  Smith  should  object.  Mr.  Smith 
felt  as  if  the  sunbeam  would  pass  from  every  thing,  if  his  little 
Rose  were  taken  from  his  home ;  but  he  never  opposed  any 
thing  on  which  his  wife  was  resolved ;  so  Mrs.  Smith  made  all 
the  arrangements,  and  William  drove  Rose  with  Chestnut,  the 
gig-horse,  to  her  boarding-school. 

The  strange  faces  and  stiflf  ways  of  ine  towns-people,  and  the 
long  streets,  instead  of  wild  lanes  and  trees,  were  very  dull  to 
the  country  child ;  but  she  learned  her  lessons,  worked  a  sam- 
pler which  was  put  in  a  frame,  and  came  home  at  midsummer 
like  a  bird  free  from  its  cage.  On  reaching  her  home,  Rose 
sprung  from  the  gig  into  her  father's  arms, — her  young  broth- 
ers, Samson  and  Ted,  came  out  with  their  welcome ;  Rose 
kissed  them,  mshed  up  the  staircase  to  her  mother,  who  had 
not  expected  her  so  soon  ;  then  down  again  to  speak  to  Molly  ; 
then  into  the  farm-yai'd,  where  she  stroked  Rover,  and  all 
the  cows,  who  were  reposing  in  the  straw  till  the  cow-hous€ 


MINISTERING  ^JUILDREN.  81 

door  sliould  be  opened  ;  then  into  the  stable,  where  she  threw 
her  arms  round  Black  Beauty's  neck ;  and,  finally,  was  attempt- 
ing to  count  the  fowls,  which  baffled  her  skill,  by  running  one 
among  another,  when  out  came  her  mother  at  the  back-door, 
saying,  "  Why,  child  !  you  run  about  like  wild ;  come  in  to  tea, 
do."  And  Eose  was  soon  in  her  old  place  by  her  father's  side 
at  tea. 

But  this  Christmas  time,  her  second  holidays.  Rose  had  come 
Tfith  graver  thoughts.  A  Httle  school-fellow  had  died,  and  the 
sense  of  separation  and  death  had  passed,  for  the  first  time,  over 
her  heart.  Rose  did  not  say  any  thing  about  it,  she  did  not  know 
very  well  what  to  say  ;  her  mother  was  a  person  of  but  few  words, 
and  these  few  were  mostly  quick  ones ;  and  Rose  hardly  knew 
that  a  change  had  passed  over  her  which  others  might  obsen^e. 
Her  mother  saw  that  she  had  lost  her  wild  spirits,  but  still  she 
was  often  meny,  and  she  ran  about  and  made  snow-balls  with 
her  brothers  ;  but  at  other  times  she  would  sit  thinking  alone  in 
the  chimney-corner,  watching  the  burning  wood  and  the  flame 
creeping  up  the  great  log^.  She  wondered  where  her  little  school- 
fellow might  be  ;  she  knew  that  she  was  somewhere — not  where 
her  body  was  laid,  in  the  dark  grave — where  then  was  ?he  ?  Rose 
knew  there  were  two  worlds  beyond  the  grave,  one  the  only 
heaven,  and  another  the  dreadful  hell  ;  to  which  then  was  her 
little  school-fellow  gone  ?  Rose  cou  I  not  tell.  And  then  came 
the  thought — If  I  should  die  like  he  ,  where  should  I  go  ?  Rose 
felt  she  did  not  know ;  and  then  s!  e  thought  upon  the  words 
their  minister  had  said,  whose  serm(  as  she  heard  at  school — ser- 
mons which  even  a  child  could  unc  erstand  and  remember ;  and 
she  wished  that  she  could  think  oi  all  he  had  oreached  about, 
and  do  as  he  had  said  that  all  who  had  God  for  their  Heavenly 
Father  should  do  ;  and  all  these  thoughts  made  her  gravt 

On  the  last  day  of  "^he  -^ear  Mrs.  Smith  was  busy  iroi  mg : 


82  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

■Rose  had  finislied  the  little  things  her  mother  had  given  her  to 
do,  and  was  seated  on  the  stool  by  the  fire,  where  she  remained 
for  some  time,  quite  silent. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  child  ?"  at  last  said  her  mother 

"  Why,  I  was  thinking,  mother,  that  I  wished  our  ministe* 
here  preached  hke  the  one  where  I  go  to  school.  I  can't  under- 
stand any  thing  here." 

"  How  does  your  minister  preach  ?" 

"  He  preaches  about  our  Saviour,  and  he  speaks  it  so  plain,  I 
am  never  tired  of  listening.     I  wish  he  were  here." 

"  And  if  he  were  here,  you  would  not  hear  him  half  so  often ; 
you  have  three  times  as  many  Sundays  at  school  as  you  have  at 
home  ;  I  am  sure  I  would  not  trouble  about  that." 

"  No,  mother ;  but  if  he  were  here,  then  you  and  father 
would  hear  him  too." 

"  And  I  suppose  it 's  that  you  always  sit  thinking  of?" 

".No,  mother,  not  of  that." 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?" 

"  Why,  the  last  Sunday  before  I  came  away  from  school,  oul 
minister  preached  about, '  Feed  my  sheep,'  and  '  Feed  my  lambs ; 
he  said  that  our  Saviour  had  told  us  to  do  so,  and  that  it  meant 
doing  all  we  could  for  others — to  help  them  for  this  world,  and 
that  good  place  where  good  people  go  ;  and  I  have  been  think- 
ing that  I  don't  do  any  thing  to  help  others." 

"  Well,  child,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  for  I  never  heard  that 
plain  way  of  preaching  that  one  could  understand  ;  but  I  can't 
see  that  it  can  belong  to  the  like  of  you  to  be  after  doing  for 
others.  I  think  if  you  mind  your  lessons  at  school,  and  do 
what  I  set  you  to  do  at  home,  you  may  very  well  play  between 
whiles,  and  take  it  easy  too." 

"  But,  mother,  so  many  people  do  think  about  helping  others, 
it 's  only  I  that  do  nothing  !" 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  33 

"  So  many  people,  child !  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  think  every 
body  is  for  self — that  is  the  beginning  and  the  end,  with  most 
that  I  see." 

"  That's  how  it  is  with  me,  mother,  but  it  is  not  so  t\  ith  all  I 
When  I  went  to  spend  the  day  with  aunt  Mackenzie  at  the 
Uall,  she  put  up  the  prettiest  little  apple-pudding  in  a  basin 
with  a  cloth  over  it,  and  sent  it  up  to  Miss  Chfford ;  and  1 
asked  her  if  Miss  Clifford  was  not  well,  for  I  thought  that  must 
V  her  dinner  sent  up  to  her ;  and  aunt  Mackenzie  laughed 
and  said,  that  was  not  the  way  to  serve  up  ladies'  dinners ;  and 
then  she  told  me  that  there  was  a  poor  old  woman  near,  dying 
of  old  age,  and  that  Miss  Clifford  went  to  carry  her  a  little  pud- 
ding, which  the  old  woman  liked  better  than  meat.  I  said,  I 
wondered  Miss  Chfford  did  not  send  it,  when  she  had  so  many 
sen-ants !  and  aunt  Mackenzie  said.  It  was  Miss  Clifford's  taking 
it  that  made  the  best  part  of  it.  She  feeds  herself !  and  she 
said,  none  could  think  what  her  hand  and  her  voice  could  do 
for  sickness,  that  had  not  known  it  as  she  had." 

"  Well,  child,  but  you  don't  think  you  could  do  like  Miss 
Clifford,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  No,  mother,  but  you  know  you  ofi*^n  do  send  something  to 
sick  people  ;  and  I  thought  if  I  took  it  to  them,  perhaps  they 
might  like  it  all  the  better,  and  then  I  shou^^  be  trying  to  do  as 
our  minister  said." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  what  they  would,  if  you  are  bent  on 
being  like  Miss  Clifford  !" 

"  No,  mother,  I  could  never  be  like  Miss  Clifford ;  but  I  do 
sometimes  think  if  Miss  Clifford  did  but  teach  me,  as  she  teaches 
Mercy,  I  might  learn  more  of  what  our  minister  at  school  says." 

"  Well,  child,  it's  all  verj'  well  for  Miss  Clifford  to  be  thinking 
about  every  body  else,  but,  as  I  say.  Miss  Clifford  is  no  rule  £nt 
you,  that  I  can  see." 

2* 


84  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  No,  mother,  but  there  is  Miss  Mansfield  in  the  town  ;  neigh- 
bor Jones  says  that  she  has  put  Mercy  into  the  penny  club 
this  year,  and  Miss  Mansfield  is  younger  than  I  am." 

"  I  dare  say  that  was  her  mother's  doing  ;  and  selling  tea  no 
doubt  is  better  than  sowing  wheat,  for  it  was  not  much  of  it  that 
was  likely  to  come  up  if  the  weather  had  held  so  wet  as  it  was  !" 

"  But  then,  mother,  there  is  Mercy  herself — when  I  was  at 
home  last  midsummer,  and  you  sent  me  to  ask  how  dame  Clark 
was — there  was  Mercy,  upon  the  table  by  the  window,  all  alone, 
with  the  Bible  on  her  knee;  and  I  asked  her  why  she  was 
there  ?  and  she  said,  dame  Clark  had  just  fallen  asleep,  and  she 
had  come  down  to  watch,  for  the  people  made  such  a  knocking 
on  the  door  when  they  wanted  any  thing,  she  w^as  afraid  they 
would  wake  her.  And  I  asked  her  who  set  her  to  nurse  dame 
Clark  ?  and  she  said,  nobody  set  her,  but  that  she  liked  to  do 
it.  And  I  asked  her  if  it  was  not  very  dull  ?  and  she  said,  that 
it  was  not  dull  at  all ;  that  dame  Clark  Hked  her  to  read  chap- 
ters and  verses  to  her,  and  to  hear  her  sing ;  and  she  said 
dame  Clark  called  her  Comfort !" 

"I  always  did  say  that  Mercy  was  the  best  child  in  the 
parish,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith  ;  "  I  never  look  twice  after  her,  let 
her  be  doing  what  she  will  up  here." 

"  But,  mother,  I  don't  do  any  thing  for  others." 

"  Well,  child,  what  would  you  do  1" 

"  Why,  yesterday,  ^vidow  Lambert  told  me  that  little  Johnnie 
could  not  leave  his  bed,  with  the  chilblains  in  his  feet ;  she 
said  he  had  quite  outgrown  and  worn  up  his  socks,  and  she 
eould  not  make  the  money  to  buy  him  any  more ;  and  I  thought 
if  I  might  but  have  a  little  of  our  worsted,  I  could  knit  him  a 
pair  of  socks  in  my  play-time." 

"  Well,  I  have  no  objection,  I  am  sure,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith, 
**  but  what's  the  use  of  one  pair  ?" 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  85 

"  0,  mother,  I  could  make  hi)n  two  pair,  if  I  might  !** 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  two  is  better  than  one  any  day  !" 

"  May  I  begin  to-day,  then,  mother "?" 

"I  thought  your  pins  were  set  fast  with  your  father's  stock- 
mgs,  and  you  won't  do  much  more  than  finish  them  of  evenings, 
these  short  holidays ;  but  if  you  wish  to  be  after  the  socks  in 
the  day,  I  will  lend  you  mine,  when  I  have  finished  the  pair  I 
am  after  now  for  Ted — but  I  am  only  in  the  fiist  sock  yet." 

A  cloud  passed  over  the  joyous  look  that  had  kindled  on 
the  face  of  little  Rose,  at  her  mother's  leave  to  make  two  pair 
of  socks — when  she  found  that  she  must  wait  days  for  pins  ! 
but  still  her  heart  felt  lighter — t^he  had  talked  with  her  mother 
about  it,  and  it  was  not  so  bad  as  she  expected. 

When  Rose  was  gone  to  her  pillow  that  night,  Mrs.  Smith 
said,  "  I  have  found  out  what  ails  the  child — she  wants  to  be 
after  the  poor,  doing  for  them  !" 

"  Don 't  say  a  word  against  it,"  replied  Mr.  Smith  ;  '*  let  the 
child  have  her  way,  it's  just  like  my  mother  !  she  took  to  read- 
ing her  Bible  and  caring  for  the  poor,  when  she  was  quite 
young ;  I  have  heard  my  grandfather  say  so ;  and  she  made 
one  of  the  best  of  women  ;  I  hoped  the  child  would  take  aftei 
her  grandmother,  when  I  named  her  Rose." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

•  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  Me,  and  forbid  them  not ;  for  of  snch  {s  tha 
kingdom  of  heaven." — ^Makk  x.  14. 

TpVERY  one  was  up  early  who  had  any  thing  to  do  on  Mr. 
-^  Smith's  farm.  Mr.  Smith  set  all  his  men  to  work,  and  then 
was  ready  for  breakfast  by  seven  o'clock.  It  was  the  last  day  of 
the  year  on  which  Rose  had  talked  to  her  mother  about  making 
the  socks  for  little  Johnnie,  and  on  the  new  year's  morning,  while 
setting  the  breakfast  table  by  caadle-light,  she  heard  widow 
Jones  speaking  to  her  mother  at  the  back-door.  Rose  guessed 
that  widow  Jones  was  going  off  to  the  town  ;  and  she  was  riglit, 
it  was  the  very  day  on  which  widow  Jones  received  the  stockings 
for  Mercy  from  little  Jane,  O,  thought  Rose,  if  I  had  but 
two  pence,  neighbor  Jones  would  buy  me  a  set  of  pins  !  but  I 
dare  not  ask  mother,  she  would  think  it  all  w^aste  to  have  two 
sets,  when  I  can  not  use  both  at  once.  O,  if  father  would  but 
come,  he  would  give  me  two  pence,  and  then  mother  would  not 
mind,  if  father  had  given  me  the  money  for  my  own !  Rose 
looked  from  the  front  door  out  into  the  snowy  morning ;  far  into 
the  darkness  her  blight  eyes  searched,  but  no  father  was  in 
sight.  Could  she  ask  her  mother  ?  No ;  she  dare  not.  Y&t 
perhaps  her  mother  would  for  once  let  her  have  another  set,  as 
she  was  going  so  soon  back  to  school  ?  but  while  she  stood  full 
of  doubt  between  hope  and  fear,  she  heard  her  mother's  quick 
FOice  say,  "Well,  good  day,  neighbor;"  and  the  back  door 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  37 

• 

shut,  and  poor  Rose's  hope  was  gone.  William,  and  Rover, 
William's  dog,  had  just  come  in,  both  were  white  with  the  fall- 
ing snow,  but  Rose  stooped  down  and  threw  her  arms  round 
Rover  to  hide  her  tears.  William's  quick  eye  saw  that  his  lit- 
tle sister  was  in  trouble.  "  What  are  you  telling  Rover  about, 
hey,  Rose  ?  Come,  look  up  and  tell  me,  there  's  no  good  in  hid- 
ing it  all  in  Rover's  snowy  ears ;  and  there 's  nobody  by  but  me." 
"  Oh,  it 's  nothing  now,  William,"  replied  Rose.  "  What  was  it 
then  ?"  asked  the  kind  brother.  "  It  was  only  that  I  did  so 
want  a  set  of  pins,  and  neighbor  Jones  has  just  gone  to  the 
town,  but  they  cost  two  pence,  and  I  was  afraid  to  ask  mother, 
because  I  have  one  set,  but  they  are  fast  with  father's  stockings, 
arid  mother  said  she  would  lend  me  her's  when  Ted's  socks  are 
done  ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  won't  be  in  time  for  what  I  want 
before  I  go  to  school ;  and  father  did  n't  come  in  sight,  though 
I  looked  for  him  all  the  time  that  neighbor  Jones  stood  at  the 
door !  "  I  should  hke  to  know  why  you  could  not  have  asked 
me,"  said  William.  "  I  should  think  I  might  have  done  as  well 
as  father  for  once,  and  better  than  Rover,  but  never  mind  now, 
I  dare  say  it  will  all  come  right  in  the  end."  And  Rose  had 
wiped  away  her  tears  with  William's  red  pocket-handkerchief, 
just  as  she  heai'd  her  father  shaking  the  snow  from  his  feet  out- 
side the  door. 

While  Rose  was  sitting  between  her  father  and  William  at 
breakfast,  a  thought  came  into  her  mind  ;  she  knew  that  Mercy 
had  a  set  of  pins,  and  that  it  was  very  seldom  that  poor  widow 
J  )nes  could  buy  any  worsted  to  put  them  in  use  ;  perhaps  she 
might  not  have  any  use  for  them  now,  and  if  not,  she  knew 
that  Mercy  would  lend  them  to  her ;  so  after  dinner  that  day. 
Rose  said,  "  Mother,  it 's  fine  now,  may  I  go  and  call  on  Mercy, 
I  have  not  seen  her  for  a  whole  week  ?"  "  Yes,"  replied  her 
Daotiiei,  "  if  you  have  a  mind,  only  take  care  and  keep  out  of 


88  MINISTERING     CHILDREN, 

the  snow-drifts."  So  off  set  Rose,  with  the  eAger  step  of  hope 
an  J  •expectation;  the  sky  was  cloudless  blue,  and  all  the  snow 
looked  sparkling  diamonds :  Rose  liked  to  feel  it  under  her  little 
feet,  and  the  ministering  child  left  the  track  of  her  footsteps  in 
that  pure  untrodden  snow. 

Rose  knocked  at  widow  Jones's  door,  and  Mercy  said,  "  Como 
in."  Rose  opened  the  door,  and  there  sat  little  Mercy  in  her 
grandmother's  old  arm-chair,  with  her  feet  in  another  chair 
wrapped  up  in  a  thin  old  blanket ;  a  few  coals  were  left  close 
by  her  side  to  keep  the  little  fire  in,  a  table  with  a  cup  and  plate 
from  which  she  had  taken, her  dinner  stood  near  her;  on  the 
table  lay  her  little  Bible  ;  her  hymn-book  was  in  her  hand. 

"  Why !  Mercy,  are  you  ill  ?"  asked  Rose,  going  up  to  her. 

"  No,  only  my  feet  got  worse  with  the  chilblains.  I  have 
kept  my  bed  nearly  a  week;  but 'grandmother's  gone  to  the 
town  to-day,  so  uncle  Jem  carried  me  down  before  she  went, 
that  I  might  not  feel  so  lonesome  with  no  one  in  the  house." 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  it,"  said  Rose  ;  "  are  they  very  bad  ?" 

"  No,  they  are  getting  better  now,  and  since  I  have  been  kept 
in-doors,  I  have  learned  a  whole  chapter  out  of  the  Bible,  and 
three  short  Psalms,  and  two  hymns,  and  Miss  Clifford  came  to 
see  me,  and  then  I  said  some  of  them  to  her ;  and  grandmother 
said  that  was  as  good  as  going  to  school.  I  have  been  thinking, 
perhaps  Miss  Clifford  will  come  to-day,  it 's  almost  a  week 
since  she  was  here,  and  the  weather  has  broken  out  so  fine !" 

"  Do  you  really  think  Miss  Clifford  will  come  to-day  ?"  asked 
Rose. 

"  I  seem  to  think  she  will,"  replied  little  Mercy,  "  only  I  don'l 
know  ;  but  I  have  learnt  another  Psalm,  perfect  every  word — 
and  a  hymn  too." 

"  Do  you  like  going  to  the  Sunday-school  very  much  ?"  asked 
Rose. 


p.  sa 


MINISTERING     CniLDREN.  89 

"  Yes,  that  I  do  !  and  so  would  any  one  if  they  did  but  once 
get  into  Miss  CHifoiv^'s  class,"  rephed  Mercy. 

"  I  should  like  it,  I  am  sure,"  said  Rose. 

Just  then  they  caught  a  sight  of  the  black  pony  of  Miss 
ChfFord's  gi'oom  passing  the  window,  and  the  hearts  of  both 
the  little  girls  beat  quick  as  the  lady  entered.  Miss  Cliflford 
spoke  kindly  to  Rose  as  well  as  to  Mercy,  saying  as  she  made 
Rose  sit  down  beside  her,  "  I  am  afraid  I  have  stopped  some 
pleasant  talk." 

"  No,  ma'am,"  replied  Mercy,  "  Rose  was  only  saying  how  she 
would  like  to  gO  to  the  Sunday-school." 

"  Do  you  really  wish  to  come  to  the  Sunday-school  ?"  asked 
Miss  Clifford  looking  at  Rose. 

"  I  go  to  a  boarding-school,  ma'am  and  I  am  afraid  mother 
would  not  let  me,"  replied  Rose. 

"  What  made  you  wish  it  ?"  asked  Miss  Clifford ;  "  Come  and 
tell  me." 

Rose  came  within  the  arm  so  kindly  opened  to  receive  her, 
but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  If  you  could  tell  me  why  you  wished  it,"  said  Miss  Clifford, 
"  perhaps  I  could  find  some  other  way  to  help  you,  if  your 
mother  objects  to  your  coming  to  the  Sunday-school." 

Rose  answered  in  a  low  voice,  "  Because  I  want  to  do  as  our 
Minister  at  school  tells  every  body  they  must ;  and  I  don't  know 
how." 

"  What  is  it  that  your  Minister  tells  you  to  do  ?"  asked  Miss 
Clifford. 

"  He  says.  Every  body  must  come  to  Jesus — and  I  don't 
know  how,"  Rose  answered ;  and  the  child's  large  tear  fell 
upon  the  hand  that  held  her,  and  the  tears  of  answering  feel- 
ing gathered  in  Miss  Clifford's  eyes.  When  Mercy  saw  the  tears 
in  Miss  Clifford's  eyes,  and  on  the  cheek  of  Rose,  she  cried 


40  MINISTERINa     CHILDREN. 

too,  she  knew  not  why,  except  because  she  saw  the  tearo  of 
those  she  loved — and  that  alone  is  often  cause  enough  for  child- 
hood's weeping  ;  a  purer,  higher  cause  than  some  that  after  years 
too  often  ofter. 

"  Does  not  your  Minister  tell  you  how  to  come  to  Jesus  ?'* 
asked  Miss  Clifford. 

"  I  don't  know,"  repHed  Rose,  "  because  I  can't  remember 
only  a  little  of  what  he  says." 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me,  then,  and  try  and  understand,  if  I 
tell  you  ?"  Miss  Clifford  asked. 

Rose  looked  up  in  the  lady's  face,  and  that  look  was  assurance 
enough. 

"  Who  have  you  come  to  now,  while  you  are  standing  here  ?" 
asked  Miss  Clifford. 

"  To  you  !"  answered  Rose. 

"  Yes,  you  have  come  to  me  ;  and  you  have  been  telling  me 
what  you  want ;  and  I  am  going  to  give  you,  if  I  can,  the 
knowledge  that  you  tell  me  you  want.  Now,  just  as  you  have 
come  close  to  me,  and  told  me  w^^^*  you  want,  so  you  must 
come  to  the  Lord  Jesus  and  tell  Him.  I  hear  you  now,  be- 
cause I  am  near  you ;  but  Jesus  is  always  near  to  you.  He 
hears  every  word ;  and  A^henever  you  speak  to  Him,  He  stoops 
down  and  listens  to  p  you  say ;  and  He  can  teach  you  all  you 
want  to  know,  and  give  you  all  you  ask  Him  for.  Do  you  pray 
to  Him  ?" 

"  I  say,  *  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven,'  "  replied  Rose  : 
"  our  governess  said  I  ought :  and  sometimes  I  say  other  things, 
when  I  want  them  very  much.  Our  Minister  said  we  might  ask 
for  all  we  wanted  when  we  pray,  only  governess  does  not  know 
w^hen  I  do  that." 

"  Do  you  tell  our  Saviour  that  you  want  to  come  to  him  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  know  how." 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  41 

"  If  I  write  you  a  short  prayer,  do  you  think  you  could  read 
it?" 

"  0  yes ;  I  can  read  writing  a  little." 

"  Then  go  to  the  door,  and  ask  the  groom  foi  my  basket ;  I 
have  ink  and  paper  there." 

Rose  brought  the  basket,  and  Miss  Clifford  wrote  in  a  plain 
hand : — 

"O  God,  my  Heavenly  Father,  I  ask  Thee  to  bow  down 
thine  ear  and  hsten  to  my  prayer.  I  am  a  little,  sinful,  help- 
Jess  child ;  and  I  want  to  come  to  Jesus,  that  I  may  be  safe 
and  happy  for  ever.  O  lead  me  to  Jesus  my  Saviour !  Let 
me  come  to  Him,  that  I  may  know  and  love  Him  and  keep 
His  commandments.  Let  me  be  washed  from  all  my  sins  in 
the  precious  blood  of  Jesus  my  Saviour.  And  give  me  the 
Spirit  of  Jesus  to  dwell  in  my  heart,  that  I  may  be  Thy  child, 
and  hve  with  Thee  for  ever.  Thou  hast  said  Thou  wilt  do  this,  if 
we  ask  ;  and  I  ask  Thee  to  do  it  for  me,  0  my  Heavenly  Father, 
for  the  sake  of  my  Saviour,  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.     Amen." 

Miss  Clifford  heard  Rose  read  the  paper,  then  folded  it 
up  and  gave  it  to  her ;  making  her  sit  down  by  her,  while  she 
talked  to  Mercy.  After  a  little  conversation.  Miss  Clifford 
heard  Mercy  repeat  her  Psalm,  which  was  said  without  one 
mistake ;  then  Mercy  repeated  her  hymn,  and  Rose  thought, 
as  she  listened,  that  certainly  the  hymn  would  please  her 
father.  After  this,  Miss  Clifford  took  leave  of  the  children, 
saying  to  Rose,  "  I  have  a  class  of  farmers'  daughters  every 
Monday  afternoon,  at  three  o'clock,  in  my  house.  You  are 
younger  than  any  here,  but  if  you  would  hke  to  come,  and 
your  mother  has  no  objections,  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  receive 
you ;  do  you  think  you  would  like  to  come  1" 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  very  much,"  said  Rose  with  brightening 
color. 


42  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  me  best  to  ask  your  mother  about 

itr 

"  Yes,  if  you  please,  ma'am." 

"  Then  I  will  ride  round  that  way  to-day,  so  you  will  not  be 
kept  long  in  suspense,"  said  Miss  Clifford,  smiling  at  the  eager 
look  on  the  face  of  Rose ;  and  then,  with  her  kind  "  Good- 
by  !"  to  both  children,  the  lady  mounted  her  white  pony,  and 
was  soon  far  away. 

"  How  glad  I  am  that  Miss  Clifford  did  come,"  said  Mercy,  "  I 
thought  she  would !" 

"  How  very  kind  she  is,"  said  Rose.  "  If  mother  will  but  let 
me  go,  how  glad  I  shall  be  !  How  I  wish  I  knew  that  piece 
of  poetry  you  said,  Mercy." 

"  It 's  a  hymn,"  rep-lied  Mercy ;  "  have  you  got  a  book 
like  mine  ?" 

"  No,  I  wish  I  had ;  I  learnt  some  pieces  of  poetry  at  our 
school ;  but  father  says  they  are  too  fine  for  him,  and  I  dare 
not  try  mother ;  but  I  think  father  would  like  what  you  said. 
Is  it  very  hard  to  learn  1" 

"  No,  it  is  not  hard  at  all ;  shall  I  lend  you  my  book  for  a 
little  while  ?  Only  I  must  learn  another  before  Miss  Clifford 
comes  again." 

"  If  you  will  let  me  have  it,"  said  Rose,  "  I  will  try  and  learn 
it  to-moiTow,  and  then  you  shall  be  sure  to  have  it  back  again." 
So  Mercy  lent  her  little  treasure  hymn-book ;  Rose  put  it  safe 
in  her  pocket ;  then  tucking  the  folded  prayer  down  deep  into 
her  bosom,  she  remembered  how  long  she  had  stayed.  She 
had  quite  forgotten  the  pins,  and  no  wonder — there  had  been 
enough  in  that  call  on  Mercy  to  fill  her  young  heart ;  and  now 
seeing  the  fire  almost  out,  she  stooped  down  to  put  on  the 
shovel  of  coals  that  stood  beside  it ;  Mercy  guessed  her  inten- 
ion,  and  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  no,  not  all  those,  only  one  or  two. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  43 

just  to  keep  it  in  till  grandmother  comes ;  that  is  all  the  coal 
there  is,  and  there  won't  be  any  warmth  left  for  grand- 
mother !" 

"  But,  Mercy,  you  will  be  froze  ;  you  look  as  cold  as  the  snow 
now." 

"  That  is  only  because  the  door  stands  opeu  ;  it  goes  so  bad, 
it  won't  shut  from  outside,  except  by  those  that  know  how  to 
humor  it." 

"  Not  shut  from  outside  !"  said  Rose  ;  "  why  don't  you  have  a 
new  one  ?" 

"  That  is  the  new  door,"  replied  Mercy  :  "  the  old  one  was  all  to 
pieces ;  grandmother  went  backward  and  forward  to  steward 
Jacobs  about  it  till  she  gave  up  hope  ;  and  then  she  dreaded 
the  winter  so  bad,  with  only  that  old  door  to  keep  it  out,  that 
she  went  all  that  way  to  Squire  LofFt  himself;  she  only  saw 
the  ladies,  but  they  came  over  in  their  carriage,  and  looked  at 
the  door ;  and  then  they  went  to  steward  Jacobs  and  gave  the 
order ;  and  steward  Jacobs  was  angered  to  think  grandmother 
should  have  been  to  Squire  Lofft,  and  the  door  was  made  of 
gi'een  wood,  and  it  shrank  all  round,  and  now  there  is  no  keeping 
warm  any  how ;  but  Miss  Clifford  has  found  it  out,  and  she  says 
there  are  more  ways  than  one  of  setting  that  right." 

"  What  will  she  do  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Mercy;  "but  grandmother  says  that 
now  it 's  once  in  Miss  Clifford's  hands  it 's  sure  to  come  out 
right." 

"  Then  you  won't  be  cold  long  ?"  said  Rose  earnestly — forget- 
ting all  but  the  slight  shiver  of  little  Mercy.  "  I  '11  see  if  I  can't 
make  the  door  shut  outside  for  me  !  Only  I  wish  I  had  some 
of  our  logs,  just  to  make  up  the  fire  fit  to  be  seen.  But  I  must 
go  now,  or  mother  will  scold.  Come  now,  door,  you  shall  shut 
for  me  !"     Rose  gave  a  hard  pull,  b  Mt  back  again  went  the  door ; 


tf4  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

then  a  gentle  pull,  but  the  moment  she  had  let  go,  it  flew  opea 
"  Was  there  ever  such  a  door  ?"  said  Rose  in  despair. 

"  Never  mind !"  said  little  Mercy  from  within,  "  never  mind 
trying  it  any  more  :  there  's  nobody  but  grandmother  and  uncle 
Jem  can  shut  it  from  outside."  But  in  the  heat  of  her  dis- 
pleasure with  the  door,  and  the  man  who  had  made  it,  and  dis- 
tress at  leaving  the  helpless  little  Mer(iy  exposed  to  the  cold 
evening  air,  Rose  pulled  and  shook  the  door,  but  pulled  and 
shook  in  vain.  Horse's  feet  came  down  the  lane,  but  Rose 
was  still  contending  with  the  door,  and  did  not  hear  them. 
It  was  William  on  Black  Beauty. 

"  Hey  day,  little  miss !  are  you  breaking  into  neighbor 
Jones's  while  she  is  away?  She  will  soon  be  home  to  find 
you  out." 

"  Oh,  William  !"  said  Rose,  ready  to  cry  with  her  vain  effoi-ts ; 
*'  I  am  so  glad  it  is  you  !  There  is  poor  Mercy — she  can't  put 
her  feet  to  the  ground  with  the  chilblains,  and  not  a  bit  of 
warmth  in  the  fire,  and  I  can't  shut  the  door !" 

"  It 's  no  more  use  to  lose  patience  with  a  door,  than  it  is  with 
a  donkey,"  said  William,  getting  down  from  his  horse. 

"  Oh,  do  try  to  shut  it !"  said  Rose ;  "  and  speak  to  poor 
Mercy  first." 

"  Well,  Mercy,"  said  William,  going  in  ;  "  why  I  guess  you 
could  not  go  dropping  now.  Poor  thing !  and  is  that  all  the 
fire  you  can  give  New-year's  day  ?" 

"  No,  I  have  some  coals,  but  I  am  keeping  them  till  grand- 
mother comes  in." 

"  Let  me  see  them.  Well,  to  be  sure — they  would  about  fill 
the  sugar-basin  !  I  left  Jem  riving  wood  hard  enough  to-day, 
and  he  shall  feel  a  little  of  the  weight  of  it  home  before  long ; 
80  don't  save  up  that  poor  handful ;  there — it  is  all  gone  !  That's 
the  first  coal  I  have  put  on  neighbor  Jones's  fire ;  and  I  think 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  4.1 

I  have  known  her  years  enough  to  have  done  it  sooner.  Now 
for  the  door.  Well,  'tis  a  fashion  of  flitting,  to  be  sure  !  I  fancy 
he  that  made  it  would  learn  to  work  bettei',  if  he  had  just  one 
night  behind  it  this  January  weather !  A  bit  of  string  is  the 
only  thing  that  will  do  it."  "William  took  from  his  pocket  a 
ball  of  string ;  slipping  the  string  round  the  latch  within,  he 
drew  the  door  quite  close,  and  tied  the  string  tight  round  the 
hook  that  fastened  ba^k  the  shutter  without.  Then,  lifting  Rose 
on  Black  Beauty,  he  gave  her  the  rein ;  the  little  maiden,  seated 
sideways  on  her  brother's  saddle,  well  at  ease,  pondered  on  past 
events,  and  felt  to  see  her  folded  paper  was  quite  safe,  while 
William  kept  even  pace  by  her  side. 

Rose  was  soon  seated  before  the  warm  wood-fire,  making  the 
ioast  for  tea,  and  wondering  how  William  could  manage  about 
getting  some  logs  for  Mercy's  fire,  when  William  came  into  th« 
kitchen,  and  said,  "  Rose,  look  here  !" 

Rose  ran  to  his  side  at  the  window ;  there,  over  the  cold  snow, 
which  lay  white  beneath  the  darkness,  Jem  was  making  his  way 
bome  from  the  farm,  with  one  of  the  deep  farm-baskets  on  his 
shoulder,  piled  up  with  logs  of  wood. 

"  Is  all  that  for  neighbor  Jones  ?"  asked  Rose,  her  face  beam- 
ing with  delight. 

"  Yes,  that  it  is,"  replied  WiUiam,  "  it  was  father  piled  it  up 
like  that ;  I  found  him,  and  I  told  him  how  the  poor  thing  sat 
shivering  there,  and  he  said  he  should  never  forgive  himself  if 
tliat  orphan  child  perished  with  cold.  I  will  say  it  is  a  pleas- 
ant thing  to  see  father  give !  I  told  him  about  the  state  of 
things  I  had  found,  and  he  went  at  once  to  Jem  and  said,  '  I 
suppose  you  would  not  be  much  against  carrjdng  half-a-dozen 
of  these  logs  home  with  you  to-night  V  Jem  shook  his  head 
with  a  smile ;  he  never  took  it  the  least  that  father  was  in 
earnest,  but  father  had  piled  up  the  basket  with  his  own  hands 


46  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

in  no  time,  and  then  lie  set  it  tlie  next  minute  on  Jem's  tthoui- 
der,  and  said, '  There,  now  make  the  best  of  your  way  home,  and 
tell  your  good  mother  I  would  give  any  lad  on  my  farm  such  a 
load  as  that  is,  if  I  could  find  any  to  trust  as  I  can  her  son  !' 
and  then  father  was  off,  as  he  always  is  when  he  thinks  he  haa 
done."  Rose  listened,  and  as  she  listened  she  slipped  her  hand 
into  her  brother's.  William  felt  this  silent  expression  of  the 
new-formed  link  between  them  ;  he  had  met  his  little  sister  in 
her  heart's  young  sympathy,  she  felt  she  could  turn  to  and  de- 
pend on  his  aid,  and  it  seemed  to  her  he  stood  the  nearest  to  her 
in  the  new  world  of  feeling  and  effort  her  trembling  steps  had 
entered.  Jem  was  out  of  sight,  but  Rose  still  watched  from  the 
window — as  if  she  thought  to  see  the  dying  embers  on  Mercy's 
cold  heai'th  blaze  up  around  the  new-year's  logs  ;  William  still 
stood  by  his  little  sister,  and  felt  and  shared  her  joy ;  the  flick- 
ering fire-light  showed  the  elder  and  the  younger  face — both 
beaming  with  the  glow  of  blessed  charity. 

"  Where  's  Jem  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Smith,  in  a  loud  voice  ;  "  ler' 
him  know  I  want  him  before  he  's  off  to-night." 

"  He  is  oft*  already,  mother,"  said  William  ;  "  what  did  you 
want  ?" 

"  How  vexing  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Smith  ;  "  that  is  always  the 
way — people  are  off  just  when  you  want  them  most !  Here  I 
had  a  bottle  of  beer  put  up  all  ready  fctr  him  to  take  home 
to  his  mother ;  for  how  she  will  toil  through  the  lanes  in  this 
deep  snow,  I  can't  think." 

"  Never  mind,  mother,"  said  William,  "  I  '11  run  after  him  ; 
don't  wait  tea  for  me  if  father  comes  in."  WiUiam's  hat  was 
on,  and  away  he  ran,  and  Rose  still  stood  at  the  window,  watch- 
ing her  brother  through  the  darkness,  by  the  light  of  the  snow. 

"  Tell  Mercy  to  have  a  little  heated  right  not,  and  let  hei 
grandmother  go  warm  *o  rest,"  shouted  Mrs.  Smith  after  Wil- 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  47 

Ham  "  Yes,  mother,"  William  shouted  back  as  he  ran.  "  Ah !" 
thought  little  Rose,  "  what  would  have  been  the  use  of  mother 
sending  that  message,  if  William  and  I  had  not  seen  to  the  fire  !" 
William  overtook  Jem  almost  at  the  cottage-door,  and  deliver 
ing  the  bottle  of  beer  and  the  message,  he  returned  to  the  farm. 
Jem,  with  a  thankful  heart,  stowed  away  the  wood,  made  up 
the  fire,  set  little  Mercy  carefully  in  another  chair,  that  his 
mother's  might  look  ready  for  her  to  sit  down  in  at  once  ;  set 
out  the  frugal  meal,  put  the  tin  mug  in  readiness  to  heat  the 
beer,  and  then,  sitting  down  upon  the  stool,  which  was  his  usual 
seat,  took  little  Mercy's  feet  carefully  on  his  knees  ;  that,  as  he 
said,  they  might  feel  a  bit  of  comfort  from  the  fire  too. 

Meanwhile  poor  widow  Jones  was  toiling  along  the  snowy 
lanes  ;  turning  at  last  the  longed-for  corner,  she  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  the  ruddy  glow,  cast  by  the  blazing  wood-fire  through 
the  large  casement  on  the  snow.  "  And  what 's  the  matter  now  ?'* 
said  widow  Jones  to  herself,  as  she  hastened  on  with  quicker 
steps  and  beating  heart ;  "  sure  the  child  has  not  set  herself 
afire  and  the  old  place  too  !" — the  thought  of  a  warm  glowing 
hearth  having  been  kindled  up  was  too  great  an  improbability 
to  enter  widow  Jones's  mind.  At  last  her  hand  was  on  the 
latch,  and  in  a  moment  more  she  saw  the  picture  of  comfort — 
the  two  she  loved  more  than  life,  the  logs  of  burning  wood,  the 
arm-chair  waiting  for  her,  the  little  supper-table  set  ready  ! 

"  There  's  mother  !"  said  Jem,  and  starting  up,  he  laid  little 
Mercy's  feet  gently  upon  the  stool  where  he  had  been  nursing 
them,  and  took  his  mother's  old  umbrella  and  basket  from  her 
hand.  Widow  Jones,  overcome  with  fatigue,  exhaustion,  and 
surprise,  sank  down  into  her  arm-chair,  while  Jem  poured  some 
beer  from  the  black  bottle  into  the  tin  mug,  and  set  it  on  the 
side  of  the  burning  log  to  heat,  and  cutting  off  a  piece  of  bread, 
he  knelt  down  before  the  fire  to  make  some  toast  to  put  into  it, 


48  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  to  find  the  like  of  this,"  said  widov» 
Jones,  at  last.  "  Where  in  the  world  did  you  manage  to  get 
firewood  and  beer  ?" 

"  That 's  all  master's  and  mistress'  goodness,"  replied  Jem ; 
"  but  never  mind  that,  mother,  till  you  have  taken  a  sip  of  beer, 
and  got  a  little  life  into  you." 

But  widow  Jones  could  not  wait.  "  Bless  them  for  it !"  she 
said,  fervently ;  and  then,  taking  up  her  basket  from  the  table 
where  Jem  had  set  it  down,  she  went  on  to  say,  in  a  livelier 
tone,  "  Here,  Mercy,  child,  I  have  a  rare  surprise  for  you  ;  if  you 
are  not  to  run  about  with  warm  feet  at  last,  I  don't  know  who 
is ;  look  you  here  !"  And  pair  after  pair  of  warm  stockings,  all 
mended  and  folded,  and  given  by  the  hand  of  httle  Jane,  were 
piled  up  on  widow  Jones's  knee. 

"  Oh,  granny !  what,  all  for  me  ?"  said  Mercy,  as  she  stretched 
out  both  hands  to  receive  one  pair,  and  feel  its  warnith.  And 
then,  while  she  imfolded  pair  after  pair,  widow  Jones  told  the 
history  of  all :  Jem  opened  both  his  eyes  and  mouth  to  listen, 
saying,  as  his  mother  ended,  "  Why  !  the  world  is  warm  all  over 
to-day,  out  here  in  the  country,  and  down  there  in  the  town  !" 

But  the  beer  in  the  tin  mug  began  to  boil,  and  the  toast  to 
put  into  it  had  long  been  made  ;  so  widow  Jones  and  her  son 
Jem  and  her  little  grand-daughter  began,  with  thankful  hearta 
and  hungry  appetites,  to  partake  of  their  simple  fare. 

At  the  farm,  Mr.  Smith  had  come  in  by  the  back  door,  and 
William  returned  by  the  front,  and  they  all  sat  down  to  tea. 

"  What 's  this  ?"  asked  Rose,  as  she  took  a  long,  thin  parcel 
from  under  her  plate. 

"  You  had  better  look  and  see,"  said  William  ;  "  it  seems  you 
have  the  best  right  to  it." 

"  There  is  no  direction  upon  it,"  said  Rose.  "  Mother,  shaU 
I  open  it?" 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  49 

"Well,  I  suppose  there  is  not  much  use  in  keeping  it  shut/* 
replied  Mrs.  Smith. 

Rose  opened  it  slowly  and  carefully ;  "  0  my  pins !  my  pins  !** 
she  exclaimed,  "  mother,  was  it  you  ?  Did  you  tell  neighbor 
Jones?" 

"  Tell  neighbor  Jones — no ;  what  should  I  have  to  tell  her  ?" 

"  You  had  better  ask  Rover,"  whispered  William,  "  he  knows 
more  about  it  than  mother."  Rose  laughed  at  this  :  "  0,  Wil- 
liam, how  glad  I  am  !  did  you  tell  neighbor  Jones  ?" 

"  No,  not  I.  You  seem  to  think  no  one  has  the  sense  to  buy 
a  set  of  pins  but  neighbor  Jones  ?" 

"  You  did  not  go  after  them  yourself,  did  you  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  You  had  better  ask  Rover  about  it,"  replied  William,  "  he 
has  the  most  right  to  answer,  seeing  you  told  him  jfirst  in  the 
morning."  So  Rose  was  provided  with  her  set  of  pins — four 
bright  steel  pins — and  to-morrow  she  could  begin  little 
Johnnie's  socks. 

Rose  had  now  only  one  anxiety,  and  that  one  was,  to  know 
whether  her  mother  had  given  leave  for  her  to  go  up  to  Miss 
Clifibrd's  class  of  farmers'  daughters  at  the  Hall ;  but  she  could 
not  venture  to  ask ;  so  she  took  the  long  stocking  she  was 
knitting  for  her  father,  and  sat  down  on  her  stool  in  the  chimney 
corner  to  her  evening's  work  ;  William  went  out  to  see  after  the 
cattle,  Mr.  Smith  sat  down  to  rest  by  the  fire  in  his  old-fashioned 
arm-chair,  Mrs.  Smith  took  her  knitting  at  the  table,  Joe  sat  by 
the  same  table  deeply  occupied  with  a  book  of  travels  he  had 
lately  met  with,  and  Samson  sat  down  in  the  opposite  chimney- 
corner  to  Rose ;  Httle  Ted  was  gone  to  rest  for  the  night. 

At  last  Mr.  Smith  said,  "  Did  I  see  Miss  Cliflbrd  cross  the 
drift  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  She  was  there,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith,  "  whether  you  saw  her 
or  not." 

3 


,    50  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

••  She  did  not  call,  I  suppose,  did  slie  ?"  again  inquired  Mr. 
Smith.  Rose  looked  up,  unable  to  knit  another  stitch  from 
anxiety. 

"  Yes,  that  she  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith,  "  she  came  to  ask 
Rose  to  a  class  of  farmers'  daughters  held  at  the  Hall.  I  told 
her  that  I  thanked  her  all  the  same,  but  I  always  had  kept  my- 
self to  myself,  and  I  meant  that  Rose  should  do  the  same." 

"  Must  not  I  go  then,  mother  ?"  asked  Rose." 

"  No,  child  ;  I  told  Miss  Chfford  so,  and  she  does  not  expect 
it  now." 

Rose  laid  down  her  knitting,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her 
pinafore,  cried  and  sobbed. 

Mr.  Smith  did  not  say  a  word,  but  he  got  up,  took  his  hat, 
and  went  out  for  his  last  round  in  the  farm-yard,  unable  to  bear 
the  sight  of  the  child's  grief  which  he  felt  he  could  not  com- 
fort. Mrs.  Smith  knitted  on,  and  Rose  went  on  crying,  while 
Samson  spread  out  both  his  hands  nearer  and  nearer  over  the 
fire,  as  if  he  did  not  quite  know  what  he  was  doing. 

"  There,  child,  leave  off  crying,  do  !"  at  last  said  Mrs.  Smith. 
"  What 's  the  use  of  taking  on  so  because  you  can  not  go  up  to 
the  Hall  ?  What 's  the  use  of  a  boarding-school,  I  should  like 
to  know,  if  you  have  not  lessons  enough  there,  without  going 
up  to  the  Hall  after  them  ?"  But  poor  Rose  was  in  no  readi- 
ness to  explain  any  feeling  just  then  to  her  mother,  she  only 
cried  on. 

"  Now,  Rose,  leave  off  crying  directly !''  said  hei  motner. 
Rose  iiied  to  keep  back  her  tears,  and  went  on  slowly  witli  her 
knitting;  meanwhile,  Samson  had  slipped  out,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  William  came  in  and  took  Samson's  place  in  the 
opposite  chimney-corner  to  Rose.  He  stretched  out  his  wet  feet 
and  cold  hands  to  the  fire,  and  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  Rose  I  have 
a  secret  to  tell  you,"  but  poor  Rose  did  not  look  up. 


MINISTERING    CHILDREN.  61 

"  0,  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  William,  "  there  is  nobody  but 
Rover  will  do,  you  began  with  him  this  morning,  and  by  what 
I  can  pee  you  mean  to  end  the  same.  Here,  Rover,  go  to  Rose, 
ihe  has  something  to  tell  you,  I  guess  she  is  for  sending  poor 
neighbor  Jones  off  for  some  worsted  to  the  town,  but  she  will 
tell  you  all  about  it ;  go,  sir,  go."  Rover  looked  up  at  his  mas- 
ter, wagging  his  tail,  and  then  went  and  looked  up  at  Rose — as 
if  by  way  of  inquiry.  "  O,  William,  how  can  you  talk  so  !" 
said  Rose,  too  full  of  sorrow  still  to  laugh,  "  I  don't  want  you, 
Rover,  go  away." 

Poor  little  Rose  !  her  day  had  begun  with  tears,  and  for 
awhile  it  seemed  hkely  to  end  with  the  same ;  and  so  it  often 
is,  that  when  we  try  to  walk  in  the  narrow  way  that  leadeth  to 
everlasting  life,  we  find  that  tears  are  there  as  well  as  smiles — 
but  the  tears  in  that  narrow  way  water  its  fair  flowers,  and 
make  them  grow  the  faster.  After  awhile,  Mr.  Smith  came  in 
again,  Rose  knew  it  was  almost  her  bed-time,  and  she  thought 
it  would  be  pleasant  just  to  hear  what  Williarc's  secret  w^as,  so 
she  went  nearer  to  him  and  said,  "  What  secret  do  you  know 
William  ?"  "  Why,"  said  William,  "  I  have  thought  of  a  way 
to  keep  up  the  fire  on  neighbor  Jones's  hearth  all  this  whole 
winter !" 

"  O,  Will,  have  you  ?  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Why,  it  was  only  this  morning  that  father  was  asking  me 
who  he  should  give  a  job  of  hedging  and  ditching  to.  I  said 
then,  '  We  had  better  think  who  we  can  best  spare  to  take  it ;' 
but  I  have  been  thinking  this  evening,  that  it  would  be  as  well 
to  consider  who  stands  most  in  need  of  it,  and  I  am  pretty  sui'e 
that  will  be  Jem ;  and  then  he  will  have  all  tiie  wood  he  cuta 
away,  and  that  will  go  far  to  keep  a  fire  on  their  hearth  all  the 
winter." 

"  Do  you  think  father  is  sure  to  let  him  have  it  ?"  asked  Rose. 


62  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  he  will,  if  I  Say  only  two  words  about  it. 
Jem  has  not  been  put  to  it  before,  but  I  never  saw  the ''thing 
yet  that  he  did  not  finish  off  as  well  as  a  man,  and  better  than 
many  men,  because  his  mind  is  always  in  the  thing  he  is  after." 

So  little  Rose  went  to  her  pillow  with  thoughts  of  Jem  hedg- 
ing and  ditching,  and  the  blazing  fire  kept  up  on  widow  Jones's 
hearth,  and  sympathy's  warm  light  drank  up  the  mist  of  sad- 
ness, and,  having  offered  up  the  lady's  prayer,  she  laid  down  her 
head  and  was  soon  asleep. 


CHAPTER    V. 

"So  then  &itL  cometh  by  hearing,  and  hearing  by  the  word  of  God."— Eon.  x.  IT. 

rriHE  next  morning,  Rose  thought  again  of  Miss  Clifford,  and 
-*-  her  lost  hope  of  going  to  the  class  at  the  Hall ;  she  sighed 
once  or  twice  while  she  was  dressing ;  but  she  had  her  little 
treasured  prayer,  and  that  comforted  her;  she  had  also  her 
pins,  and  Mercy's  hymn-book,  from  which  to  learn  the  hymn 
that  she  thought  would  please  her  father ;  so  she  ran  down 
stairs  with  a  cheerful  step,  and  was  soon  engaged  preparing  the 
breakfast.  After  breakfast,  the  boys  helped  clear  the  table ; 
Mrs.  Smith  went  off  to  the  dairy ;  and  Rose  began  her  morn- 
ing's work.  First,  she  made  up  the  fire  ;  then  she  washed  the 
cups  and  saucers,  mugs  and  plates,  from  the  breakfast-table,  and 
put  them  away ;  after  this,  she  swept  up  the  farm-house  kitchen, 
the  room  they  always  occupied ;  and  then,  with  her  little  can  of 
wheat,  went  out  to  feed  the  fowls ; — quite  unconcerned  at  snow 
or  freezing  wind,  she  stood  in  the  stone-yard,  which  was  always 
swept  early,  and  scattered  the  grain  round  her,  while  the  hun- 
gry fowls  came  flying  over  the  low  wall  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice  to  pick  it  up  ;  and  the  little  birds  peeped  down  from  the 
bare  branches  of  the  old  ash-tree  that  stood  beside  the  low  wall, 
watching  till  Rose  should  throw  them  a  distant  handful, 
which  she  never  failed  to  do,  looking  up  with  a  special  call 
meant  only  for  them — and  then  down  flew  on  lighter  wing  the 
little  birds  of  the  air,  while  Rose  stood  a  watcher  between  them 


54  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

and  the  fowls  of  the  farm,  guarding  the  rights  of  both.  After 
thisj  Rose  went  mth  her  mother  to  set  the  upper  rooms  iji  or- 
der ;  and  then,  tor  the  most  part,  her  household  work  was  done ; 
but,  on  churning  days,  and  baking  days,  and  washing  days,  and 
ironing  days,  there  was  more  to  be  accomplished,  and  sometimes 
Kose  was  busy  with  her  mother  nearly  the  whole  day  ;  but  this 
was  neither  churning,  nor  baking,  nor  washing,  nor  ironing  day, 
and  Rose  had  done  all,  and  put  on  her  clean  pinafore,  by  a  little 
after  eleven  o'clock. 

And  now  her  time  was  her  own,  to  employ  as  she  liked  ;  and 
she  might  begin  her  socks ;  but  she  must  ask  her  mother  for 
the  promised  worsted ;  and,  she  thought,  perhaps  her  mother 
might  be  angry  with  her  still,  for  crying  the  night  before  ;  but 
if  she  did  not  ask,  she  could  not  begin  poor  little  Johnnie's 
socks.  Had  she  not  better  learn  her  hymn  out  of  Mercy's 
book,  and  then  she  need  not  ask  her  mother  at  present  ?  Yes, 
but  Rose  knew  that  when  she  had  set  her  sock  on,  and  counted 
the  stitches,  she  could  knit  and  learn  too  ;  and  poor  Johnnie  had 
no  socks  to  his  feet ;  so  she  went  to  her  mother,  and  asked, 
"  Mother,  may  I  have  that  worsted  for  Johnnie  Lambert's  socks 
now  ?"  Mrs.  Smith  had  looked  many  times  at  her  little  daugh- 
ter ;  she  had  seen  her  pale  with  the  last  night's  crying,  yet  busy 
all  the  morning,  a  little  grave,  but  pleasant  still  in  all  she  did 
or  said ;  she  remembered  how  the  child  had  wished  she  could 
learn  of  Mks  Clifford,  and  she  began  to  think  whether  she  had 
done  right  in  refusing ;  but  Mrs.  Smith  never  liked  to  give  up 
her  o^vn  way,  and  she  had  yet  to  learn  that  "  a  man's  pride  shall 
bring  him  low,  while  honor  shall  uphold  the  humble  in  spirit ;" 
but  when  her  little  girl  asked  in  fear  and  trembling  for  the 
worsted,  Mrs.  Smith  replied,  "  Yes,  child,  to  be  sure,  did  n't  I 
tell  you  you  might  ?  It 's  in  the  drawer  ;  you  may  take  what 
you  want,  and  wind  it  at  once  " 


AI I  N  J  5  T  E  R I  N  G     CHILDREN.  56 

**  May  I  make  two  pair  then,  motlier  ?"  asked  Rose,  gathering 
courage. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,  if  you  make  one  ;  one  pair  is  n't  much  use 
alone." 

So  Rose  ran  off  for  her  worsted  ;  she  knew  exactly  the  riglit 
size,  and  how  many  stitches  to  set  on  ;  she  opened  Mercy's  little 
hymn-book  on  the  chimney-corner,  hung  the  skein  on  the  back 
of  her  father's  arm-chair,  and  was  just  beginning  to  wind  her 
worsted  and  learn  her  hymn,  when  her  father  passed  the  window 
and  came  in  at  the  front  door ;  he  took  otY  his  great  coat  and 
hat,  all  white  with  the  fresh-falling  snow,  and  came  in  for  a  rest 
and  a  warm. 

"  Well,  little  girl,  busy  as  possible  ;  that 's  all  right ;  never 
mind  being  tired  with  work,  so  long  as  you  are  never  tired  with 
idleness  ;  work  well,  and  rest  well,  that 's  my  maxim  ;  but  idle 
work,  and  idle  rest,  I  should  like  to  know  what 's  the  good  they 
ever  did  to  any  body  ?     What  are  you  after  now  ?" 

"  O,  father,  you  can  hold,  my  worsted,  while  I  wind  ;  it  gets 
tangled  up  on  the  chair.  I  am  going  to  make  some  socks  for 
poor  little  Johnnie  Lambert ;  he  has  not  a  bit  of  sock  to  his 
feet ;  mother  says  I  may  make  him  two  pair." 

"  That  won't  do  you,  nor  mother,  nor  Johnnie  Lambert  any 
harm,  I  guess  !  What  book  have  you  got  open  there  ?  Are 
you  so  hard  put  to  it  for  time  that  you  must  do  two  things  at 
once  ?     That  is  not,  for  the  most  part,  the  best  way." 

"  No,  father,  but  that  is  Mercy's  book ;  she  lent  it  to  me  to 
learn  a  hymn,  and  she  wants  the  book ;  so  I  told  her  I  would 
learn  it  to-day,  if  I  could,  and  take  it  back  to  her." 

"  And  have  you  not  books  enough  without  Mercy's  !  I  should 
have  thc'Ught  yoM  might ;  I  know  I  paid  eleven  shillings  down 
this  last  half-year  for  books  and  such  like  things,  and  yet  it 
seems  you  have  to  come  to  Mercy  after  all — whose  schooling 


66  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

never  cost  a  single  bit  of  gold ;  that  is  what  comes  of  boarding- 
school  expense?,  I  see." 

"  'No,  father ,  but  what  I  learn  at  school  are  pieces  of  poetry 
that  are  not  any  use  at  home,  because  you  say  they  are  too  fine 
for  you  ;  so  I  thought  I  would  just  learn  such  a  beautiful  hymn, 
that  Mercy  said  out  of  her  book  to  Miss  Clifford,  and  see  if  yoii 
did  not  like  that ;  only  you  hear  it,  father  !"  Rose  took  up  the 
book,  and,  standing  at  her  father's  knee,  she  read ; — 

"  By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill, 
How  sweet  the  lily  grows  1 
How  sweet  the  breath  beneath  the  hill 
Of  Sharon's  dewy  rose  I 

"Lol  such  the  child  whose  early  feet 
The  paths  of  peace  have  trod ; 
Whose  secret  heart,  with  influence  sweet, 
Is  upward  drawn  to  God  1 

"  By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill, 
The  lily  must  decay ; 
The  rose  that  blooms  beneath  the  hill 
Must  shortly  fade  away. 

"  0  Thou,  whose  early  feet  were  found 

"Within  Thy  Father's  slirine — 
Whose  years  with  changeless  virtue  crowned 
Were  all  alike  divine  ; — 

"  Dependent  on  Thy  bounteous  breath — 
We  seek  Thy  grace  alone ; 
In  childhood,  manhood,  age,  and  death, 
To  keep  us  still  Thine  own." 

The  father  listened,  then  took  the  book  and  said,  "  Let  me 
Bee  it ;"  and,  looking  at  the  first  verse,  read  aloud  the  wordfi, 
"  '  Of  Sharon's  dewy  rose  !' — that  was  what  your  grandmothei 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  57 

would  often  speak  about  wlien  any  one  took  notice  of  hei 
name." 

"  I  know,  father,  for  our  Minister  preached  about  that,  and 
governess  always  makes  us  learn  the  text  when  we  come  home  ; 
It 's  in  the  Bible,  '  I  am  the  rose  of  Sharon,  and  the  hly  of  the 
valley  ;'  and  our  Minister  said  it  meant  our  Saviour." 

"  Oh,  child,  how  like  you  are  to  my  mother  !  I  never  knew 
that  was  in  the  Bible,  though  I  have  heard  her  speak  about  it 
so  often  !  I  suppose  I  did  not  take  so  much  notice  then  ;  she 
would  have  been  pleased  enough  if  I  had  thought  about  some 
of  her  words  then  as  I  do  now  ;  but  I  can  not  remember  many 
of  them  now,  only  I  would  give  any  thing  to  have  you  like 
her.  Do  you  think  you  could  find  where  that  is  in  the  Bible 
about  the  rose  of  Sharon  ?" 

"  No,  father,  I  can't  tell  where  to  find  any  thing  in  the  Bible, 
because  I  have  not  got  one.     Mercy  has  one  of  her  own." 

"  What  then  did  I  pay  down  that  eleven  shillings  for,  if  you 
have  not  so  much  as  got  a  Bible  ?" 

"  I  did  ask  our  governess,  father,  but  she  said  that  it  was  not 
her  business  to  get  rne  a  Bible ; — that  if  I  wanted  one,  I 
must  ask  you  for  that,  and  I  thought  I  would  before  I  went  to 
school  again." 

"Sure  enough  you  shall  have  one  !  -I  don't  know  that  my 
mother  ever  had  any  books  except  her  Bible  and  her  prayer- 
book,  and  she  had  learning  enough  to  make  her  one  of  the  best 
of  women,  and  how  should  you  ever  be  hke  her  if  you  have  not 
so  much  as  a  Bible  to  look  into  !  I  will  see  to  it  next  market- 
day,  you  may  rest  sure  of  that,  and  now  I  must  be  off  again." 

And  the  happy  child  sat  down  to  her  knitting,  and  her  hymn  ; 
but  how  often  did  she  cease  to  murmur  the  sweet  words,  while 
her  thoughts  were  gone  to  her  promised  Bible. 

"  Ther^,  child,"  said  her  mother,  coming  in  with  a  couple  of 


58  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

pair  of  old  socks  in  her  hand,  "  if  you  take  my  advice,  you  will 
inend  up  those  old  soft  socks  first  for  widow  Lambert's  boy , 
they  won  't  be  so  stiff  to  his  feet ;  if  they  are  as  bad  as  you  say, 
he  would  hardly  bear  the  new  ones  for  a  time  yet." 

"  O  yes,  mother ;  and  then  if  I  mend  them  on  this  snowy  day  I 
can  take  them  to-morrow  !"  So  when  dinner  was  over,  and  cleared 
away.  Rose  still  went  on  darning,  and  learning,  till  the  light  of 
the  short  day  began  to  fade,  and  it  was  time  to  set  the  tea. 

Rose  whispered  to  William  in  the  evening,  "  What  did  father 
say  about  Jem  ?" 

"  0,  it 's  all  right  enough,"  replied  William  ;  "  Jem's  to  begin 
to-morrow,  and  he  looks  as  great  as  a  prince  about  it.  I  called 
in  this  morning  to  hear  how  neighbor  Jones  was,  after  her 
walk  in  the  snow ;  Mercy  was  on  her  feet ;  Miss  Mansfield  had 
sent  her  some  warm  stockings  that  had  set  her  up  again.  Jem 
had  been  in  to  tell  his  mother  the  news  about  his  getting  the 
hedging  and  ditching,  and  she  said  she  was  thankful  enough, 
but  she  knew  it  was  all  that  blessed  child's  doing,  who  would 
not  rest  while  the  widow  and  the  orphan  were  cold  !" 

"  Who  did  she  mean,  Will  ?" 

"  Why,  you,  to  be  sure  !" 

"  But  it  was  not  I ;  it  was  you.  Will,  that  did  that." 

"  No,  Rose,  I  am  aft  aid  I  should  never  have  thought  of  it,  had 
it  not  been  for  your  taking  on  so  about  Mercy's  fire ;  but  now 
we  have  begun  'tis  likely  to  go  on  well  for  them,  I  hope." 

The  next  was  a  bright  winter's  day,  the  heavens  were  clear, 
and  all  the  earth  looked  white  and  beautiful ;  within  the  house 
Rose  was  as  busy  as  a  bee  among  the  flowers  of  spring.  This 
was  baking-morning ;  Rose  peeled  apples  for  pies  and  turnovers, 
filled  little  round  tartlets  with  jam,  and  washed  over  the  tops 
of  the  loaves  with  a  feather  dipped  in  beer,  to  make  them  brown 
and  shining.     No  play-time,  no  wo-k  for  Johnnie  Lambert  that 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  59 

morning,  but  Rose  had  finished  darning  the  soft  socks  the  day 
])efore.  When  baking  was  over,  her  mother  gave  her  two  large 
rosy  apples,  but  she  slipped  them  both  into  her  pocket — one  for 
Mercy,  and  one  for  little  Johnnie  Lambert. 

After  dinner.  Rose  had  her  mother's  leave  to  take  the  socks 
she  had  mended  to  Johnnie  Lambert.  "Are  you  going  any 
where  else,  child  ?"  asked  her  mother. 

"  Only  to  take  Mercy  back  her  hymn-book,  mother." 

"  I  thought  it  was  hkely  you  were  going  there  ;  you  may  take 
her  one  of  those  apple  turnovers  you  made  this  morning,  if  you 
have  a  mind ;  I  dare  say  she  gets  little  more  than  bread,  and  not 
too  much  of  that ;  it  must  be  a  hard  matter  for  the  old  woman 
to  make  out  this  winter  time."  Rose  lifted  her  beaming  face  to 
her  mother,  who  stuffed  turnover  and  socks  into  a  basket ;  and 
off  set  the  ministering  child,  pressing  with  light  step  the  soft 
and  sparkling  snow. 

First  to  Johnnie  Lambert's,  under  the  hill.  His  mother  was 
seated  at  work,  patching  up  Johnnie's  frock,  while  the  poor  little 
fellow  was  wrapped  up  in  her  cloak  by  the  fire.  Rose  found 
ready  entrance.  "  Look,  Johnnie,  see  !  I  have  brought  you 
two  pair  of  soft  wai'iu  socks  ;  won  't  you  soon  nin  about  now  ?" 

"Well,  I  am  sure  !  who  would  have  thought  of  seeing  socks 
on  you,  Johnnie  ?"  said  his  mother. 

"  I  am  knitting  him  new  ones,  and  they  will  be  done  before 
I  go  to  school,"  said  Rose.  "And  there's  an  apple  for  ycu, 
Johnnie  !" 

"  Look,  mother,  look  !"  said  little  Johnnie,  who  understood 
the  pleasure  of  an  apple,  more  than  the  comfort  of  warm  socks 
— to  which  his  little  feet  had  been  strangers  quite  long  enough 
for  him  to  forget  them.  Many  a  sweet  golden  apple  had  Rose 
gathered  ft'om  their  orchard-trees,  but  never  one  before  had 
OTven  her  so  much   pleasure  as  this — while  she  lookerl  at  the 


6C  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

little  cliilblain  prisoner,  wrapped  up  in  his  mother's  cloat  his 
face  all  one  glad  smile  at  this  autumn  treasure  come  in  winter's 
depth  to  cheer  him. 

Then  on  went  the  happy  child — ^lightly  along  the  snowy  lanes 
as  the  bird  that  glides  over  the  summer  lawn,  her  basket  in  her 
hand,  her  little  shawl  pinned  round  her,  and  her  face  glowing 
with  the  healthful  breath  of  the  frosty  air ;  up  the  hill  side,  then 
along  the  winding  lane,  to  widow  Jones's  door.  At  the  door  she 
stood  still  in  amazement ;  it  was  new  all  over^  and  fitted  so  close 
that  not  one  cold  blast  of  wind  could  possibly  make  its  way  in, 
to  get  itself  a  warm  at  the  winter  fire.  At  last  Rose  knocked 
with  some  hesitation,  but  the  new  door  was  quickly  opened,  and 
Mercy  stood  before  her. 

"  Why,  Mercy,  how  quick  you  have  got  a  new  door  !  Did 
Miss  Cliiford  do  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  she  did ;  it 's  hardly  been  up  an  hour  yet,  and  it 
goes  as  well  as  a  door  can  go  ;  and  grandmother's  out,  and  she 
does  not  know  a  word  about  it,  and  I  have  had  nobody  to  tell. 
1  am  so  glad  you  're  come  !  Grandmother  will  be  so  surpiised, 
she  won't  know  the  place  ;  just  you  come  and  feel  how  warm  it 
is  by  the  fire  now ;  and  look  here,  only  look  !"  and  Mercy's  little 
hand  drew  out  to  view  a  dark  crimson  curtain,  hung  by  rings 
on  a  strong  cord,  behind  widow  Jones'  old  arm-chair,  between 
the  fire  and  the  back  door.  Rose  looked  in  silent  admiration 
from  the  new  door  to  the  thick  sheltering  curtain,  then  back 
again  to  the  new  door. 

"  But  Miss  Clifford  could  not  biing  the  door  ?"  said  Rose,  un- 
able still  to  take  the  mystery  in. 

"  0  no,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  was  sitting  here  all 
alone,  so  warm  on  one  side  by  the  fire  you  made  us ;  and  so 
cold  the  other,  for  the  wind  drove  in  piercing ;  and  I  heard  a 
great  lumbering  outside,  so  I  went  to  look,  and  there  was  car- 


p.  60. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  61 

penter  Masou  with  liis  man  and  cart,  and  this  new  door.  He 
said  he  heard  that  there  was  some  little  fault  about  the  other, 
and  so  he  brought  a  new  one ;  and  while  he  was  doing  it  Miss 
Cliflbrd  came,  and  carpenter  Mason  took  great  notice  of  the 
least  word  she  said  ;  and  she  asked  him  to  drive  those  two  big 
hooks  into  the  wall ;  and  he  took  a  deal  of  pains,  and  said  he 
had  made  them  both  fast  in  a  beam ;  and  that  beautiful  cmlain 
was  rolled  up  on  the  groom's  saddle,  and  carpenter  Mason  hung 
it  up,  and  drew  it  himself  behind  grandmother's  chair ;  and 
when  he  was  gone,  Miss  Clifford  said  that  I  might  tell  grand- 
mother that  the  curtain  came  from  her  room — where  some  new 
ones  had  been  put  up.  I  am  sure  I  can't  think  what  grand- 
mother and  uncle  Jem  will  say  when  they  come  home  ?  The 
draught  from  that  back-door  used  to  blow  the  candle-flame  all  on 
one  side,  so  that  it  was  no  use  to  try  and  bum  one  on  windy  even- 
ings ;  but  now,  what  with  the  new  door,  and  the  curtain,  and  the 
warm  fire,  we  shall  not  know  how  to  be  comfortable  enough !" 

After  a  little  more  admiration  and  conversation,  Rose  opened 
her  basket,  and  said,  "  See  what  mother  has  sent  you !  We 
baked  to-day,  and  I  made  that  turnover,  and  I  brought  you  that 
big  apple  !     Shall  we  set  the  table  together  ?" 

Mercy  willingly  agreed  and  the  small  round  table  was  set  out 
to  the  best  effect,  the  turnover  in  the  middle  ;  then  Mercy  also 
agreed  that  Rose  should  put  on  another  log,  to  make  a  real  good 
fire  for  once ;  and  Rose  filled  the  kettle,  and  hung  it  over  the 
fire  to  boil — ^for  little  Mercy  was  still  lame ;  and  then  the  chil- 
dren looked  round  on  all  with  eatire  satisfaction,  and,  saj^ng 
"  Good  by"  to  each  other,  Mercy  waited  within,  in  glad  expecta- 
tion of  the  happy  surpiise  of  her  grandmother,  and  uncle  Jem ; 
while  Rose  ran  swiftly  home  to  tell  them  all  the  welcome  tidings 
of  the  new  door  and  the  wanii  curtain. 

The  next  day  farmer  Smith  and  his  son  William  went  off  to 


82  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

tlie  market ;  and  all  day  long  Rose  thought  upon  the  promised 
Bible ;  the  hour  for  her  father's  return  came,  but  Rose  could  not 
watch,  she  must  pi'epare  the  tea  and  make  the  toast ;  but  pres- 
ently she  heard  his  cheerful  voice  in  the  back  kitchen,  saying, 
*'  Well,  wife,  it 's  cold  enough  !"  and  then  his  hat  was  hung  on 
the  peg  in  the  passage,  and  the  whip  set  down  in  the  corner  by 
the  hat,  and  his  next  step  was  in  at  the  kitchen  door ,  down 
went  the  toast,  and  Rose  was  at  her  father's  side. 

"  Well,  my  little  girl,"  said  her  father,  with  his  kindest  smile, 
"  all  safe  and  right — Chestnut,  and  William,  and  father,  and 
Bible,  and  all !"  and  he  drew  the  precious  book  from  his  inside- 
pocket,  and  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  his  child.  Rose  took  it 
with  trembling  joy,  the  gilt  edges  of  its  leaves  all  sparkled  in 
the  fire-light  blaze.     "  Oh  father,  is  this  mine  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  it  is,"  said  her  father ;  and  then,  lajdng  hia 
hand  upon  her  head,  he  said  in  the  solemn,  tone  of  prayer,  "  Mv 
mother's  God  give  thee  his  blessing  with  it !" 

The  past  excitement  of  hope  and  expectation  through  the  day. 
and  now  her  hope  fulfilled,  and  the  voice  of  prayer — heard  for 
the  first  time  by  Rose  from  her  father's  lips — prayer  of  which 
her  Minister  at  school  had  said  so  much  !  all  these  mingled  feel- 
ings overcame  the  little  girl ;  she  threw  her  arms  round  her 
father's  neck  and  sobbed  :  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and  the 
first  tear  he  had  shed  since  he  had  wept  for  his  mother,  fell  on 
the  head  of  his  child. 

Rose  heard  her  mother's  step,  and  at  the  sound  her  arms  un- 
clasped from  her  father's  neck,  she  folded  up  her  precious  Bible, 
and  sat  down  again  to  finish  the  toast.  William  smiled  a  know- 
ing smile  at  her  when  he  came  in,  and  whispered,  "  It  was  I 
who  helped  father  to  choose  you  such  a  beauty  of  a  book !" 
But  it  was  not  its  purple  cover,  it  was  not  its  gilt  edges,  that 
had  made  the  hand  of  little  Rose  tremble  with  joy.     No,  it  waa 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  63 

that  she  held  at  last  her  own  Bible — the  Book  from  which  she 
had  heard  the  Minister  preach  such '  sweet  words — words  that 
had  already  taught  her  to  know  and  love  her  Saviour.  Before 
i«a,  Rose  showed  her  treasure  to  her  mother,  who  said,  she 
hoped  Rose  was  not  going  to  take  such  a  book  as  that  to  bo 
worn  shabby  at  school !  But  her  father  replied,  that  he  bought 
it  for  her  to  have  always  with  her ;  for  that,  he  beheved,  was 
the  use  of  a  Bible  !  So  Mrs.  Smith  said  no  more,  and  Rose, 
relieved  from  all  apprehension  of  separation,  carried  her  treasure 
up  with  her  that  night  to  bed. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  after  breakfast,  while  Mrs. 
Smith  was  still  busy  in  the  back-kitchen,  Rose  sat  down  on  her 
father's  knee  by  the  fire.  She  had  been  thinking  of  how  her 
father  had  said,  when  he  gave  her  the  Bible,  "  My  mother's 
God  give  thee  His  blessing !"  and  now,  putting  her  arm  round 
his  neck,  she  asked,  "  Father,  why  did  you  say,  My  mother's 
God — is  not  God  jour  God  !" 

"  I  don't  know.  Rose,"  replied  her  father. 

"  Then,  father,  won't  you  ask  God  to  be  your  God  ?  Our 
Minister  says,  that  God  will  do  all  good  things  that  we  ask  Him 
for ;  and  I  know  it  is  so,  because  I  asked  Him  that  mother 
might  let  me  do  something  to  help  others,  as  our  Minister  said 
we  should,  and  then  mother  did.  And  I  asked  that  I  might 
have  a  Bible  of  my  own,  and  now  I  have.  So,  won't  you  ask, 
father?" 

"  Yes,  Rose,  I  hope  I  shall.  I  don't  feel  comfortable  never 
reading  the  Bible  with  you  children.  I  should  like  to  have 
family  prayers  as  my  mother  used,  but  I  don't  know  what  has 
become  of  the  book  of  prayers  she  used  ;  I  am  afraid  it 's  alto- 
gether lost :  and  our  Minister  here  is  not  one  that  you  can  speak 
to  about  that  sort  of  tl:  ing,  for  he  has  never  spoken  a  word  to 
me  about  it  himseK!" 


64  MINISTERING     CHILDREN 

"  Oh,  but  father,  our  Minister  at  school  says  that  we  may  pray 
to  God  in  words  from  om'  own  hearts ;  and  I  tried,  and  I  found 
it  was  right !" 

"  Well,  Rose,  I  don't  know,  for  I  have  not  tried  it  yet ;  but 
I  do  know  it 's  the  thinor  that  ouo^ht  to  be  done,  and  I  will  talk 
to  your  mother ;  for  there  is  nothing  like  to-day.  My  mother 
used  to  say,  *  To-day,  "William,  not  to-morrow !'  I  have  found 
it  a  good  rule  for  this  world,  and  it  is  not  likely  to  be  worse  for 
the  next." 

"  No,  father,  to-day  must  be  right,  for  that  is  what  we  say 
every  Sunday  in  the  Psalm  at  church,  '  To-day  if  ye  will  hear 
His  voice,  harden  not  your  hearts  !'  " 

As  they  walked  to  church  that  morning,  their  children  being 
on  before,  Mr.  Smith  said  to  his  wife,  "  Do  you  know  where  my 
mother's  Bible  is  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,  I  locked  it  up  to  keep  it  safe  from  the  chil- 
dren." 

"  I  wish  you  would  look  it  out  then  ;  for  I  feel  I  have  been 
very  wrong  to  neglect  it  so  :  a  locked-up  Bible  is  a  bad  witness 
against  me.  I  should  wish  we  should  read  it  every  day  with 
the  children — have  family  prayers  I  mean,  morning  and  even- 
ing, as  they  do  at  the  Hall,  for  I  know  there  is  but  one  Way 
alike  for  all." 

"  Well,  I  think  it  was  a  pity  you  did  not  consider  of  it  from 
the  first ;  I  never  can  see  the  use  of  changes — it 's  nothing  more 
than  saying,  We  have  been  wi'ong  all  along  before  !" 

"  And  so  we  have,  wife,  and  all  the  shame  lies  in  the  wrong 
thing — not  in  tiying  to  do  the  right :  and  are  we  not  always 
telling  our  people  that  they  must  make  a  change,  and  do  better 
by  us?  And  if  they  never  see  us  take  a  step  in  the  good  way 
they  may  well  think  what 's  the  need  for  them  to  change  ?  for 
you  may  be  sure  they  are  well  aware  we  are  not  all  we  ought  to 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  65 

be  yet ;  but  if  they  see  us  doing  better  than  before,  may  be  lliey 
will  think  it  time  to  begin  to  consider  their  own  ways,  before  it 
be  too  late." 

"  Well,  I  am  sure  I  don't  understand  it,  so  you  must  do  as  you 
please  ;  that  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

That  afternoon  when  Mr.  Smith  went  into  his  little  parlor, 
his  mother's  Bible  had  been  laid,  by  his  wife,  on  the  table  :  he 
took  it  in  his  hand — the  lamp  that  had  lighted  his  steps  to  the 
kingdom  of  Heaven ! — he  opened  it — he  saw  the  well-worn 
leaves — he  could  not  read  the  words,  for  his  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears  ;  but  kneeling  down,  he  took  it  for  his  own — his  lamp  in 
life — his  guide  to  Heaven. 

That  evening,  when  they  were  all  assembled,  farmer  Smith 
sent  Rose  to  the  parlor  to  fetch  her  grandmother's  Bible ;  he 
took  it  from  her  hands  and  said,  "  My  boys,  you  don't  know  this 
Bible,  but  I  know  it  well ;  it  was  your  grandmother's,  and  it  has 
been  my  sin  that  you  have  not  known  it  as  long  as  you  have 
known  any  thing.  It  guided  your  grandmother  to  Heaven  ;  she 
never  looked  on  any  thing  as  she  looked  on  this  book.  I  have 
heard  her  talk  to  it  and  say,  "  My  blessed  Bible,  my  comforter, 
my  guide  to  Heaven's  gate — how  I  thank  God  for  you  !"  and 
then  she  would  say  to  me,  '  My  son,  bind  the  words  of  this  book 
as  chains  about  thy  neck,  write  them  on  thine  heart.'  Ah  !  my 
mother,  I  have  not  done  so  !  but  I  trust,  by  God's  help,  I  shall ; 
and  see  to  it,  my  boys,  that  you  lay  up  its  words  in  your  hearts, 
that  it  may  lead  you  to  a  better  world  than  this." 

Then  Molly  was  called  in,  and  took  her  seat,  and  farmer  Smith 
read  the  first  Psalm.  "  Let  us  pray,"  then  said  the  father,  and 
all  knelt  down,  while,  with  a  trembling  voice,  he  offered  up  his 
prayer. 

"  O  God,  pardon  our  manifold  sins.  Pardon,  0  God,  our  neg- 
lect of  Thy  Word.     May  the  Bible  be  from  this  time  our  de 


66  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

ligtt.  We  thank  Thee  for  Thy  mercy ;  we  thank  Thee  fol 
Thy  patience  ;  we  thank  Thee  for  Thy  goodness.  O  God,  bless 
GUI  children  ;  bless  our  servants  ;  and  take  care  of  us  this  night, 
for  tlie  love  of  Thine  only  Son  our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.    Amen." 

The  next  morning,  when  farmer  Smith  came  in  to  breakfrist, 
Mrs.  Smith  had  laid  the  Bible  ready  for  him.  Molly  was  called 
in  ;  the  yard-boy  was  set  in  the  back  kitchen,  that  no  one  might 
make  a  disturbance,  and  Mrs.  Smith  failed  not  to  say  to  him, 
"  You  may  keep  near  the  passage  here ;  you  will  be  none  the 
worse  for  hearing!"  The  father  read  the  second  Psalm,  and 
prayed  again. 

"  O  God,  we  thank  Thee  for  the  night :  we  thank  Thee  for 
safety  and  rest.  0  God,  take  care  of  us  this  day  ;  keep  us  from 
all  evil ;  teach  us  to  please  Thee.  O  God,  bless  us  all ;  and 
make  us  to  remember  and  love  Thy  Word,  through  Jesus  Christ 
our  Saviour.     Amen." 

From  that  day,  morning  and  evening  prayers  were  always 
heard  in  farmer  Smith's  dwelling. 

Rose  could  not  finish  the  socks  for  little  Johnnie  Lambert  till 
the  day  before  that  on  which  she  was  to  return  to  school ;  she 
could  not  hope  to  be  spared  to  take  them,  because  it  was  time 
for  her  things  to  be  packed  up  ;  so  after  dinner  she  said,  "  Mo- 
ther, I  have  finished  little  Johnnie's  last  sock ;  will  you  please 
give  them  to  widow  Lambert  when  you  see  her  ?" 

"  And  why  not  take  them  yourself,  child  ?" 

"  I  thought  you  would  want  me,  mother,  for  packing  my 
clothes." 

"  0, 1  can  see  to  that ;  it  is  n't  likely  when  you  have  worked 
up  all  your  playtime  into  socks  for  a  barefoot  child,  that  I  should 
hinder  you  from  the  sight  of  them  on  his  feet.  I  have  found 
yo'i  up  an  old  pair  of  Ted's  boots,  for  I  dare  say  the  child's  are 
a8  much  to  pieces  as  they  are  together,  and  there  's  no  use  in  his 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  67 

wearing  out  your  work  as  soon  as  you  have  done  it,  for  want  of 
a  pail  of  boots  to  cover  it." 

So  away  went  the  ministering  child,  with  her  own  hand  to 
draw  on  the  socks  of  the  fatherless  boy,  and  to  see  him  stoop 
down  and  feel  them  with  his  little  fingers,  while  the  tear  of 
thankfulness  glistened  in  his  mother's  eye.  Rose  took  a  fare- 
well of  Mercy,  and  then  hastened  home.  And  when  she  turned 
the  corner  of  the  road,  there,  on  the  top  of  the  green  slope  at  the 
garden-gate  of  the  farm,  was  Miss  Clifford  on  her  white  pony, 
and  David  her  groom  holding  his  black  pony  at  her  side.  Rose 
longed  to  run  home  for  fear  Miss  Clifford  should  be  gone ;  but 
she  did  not  like  Miss  Clifford  to  see  her  running,  so  she  walked 
down  the  hill  to  the  bridge,  and  then  began  as  fast  as  she  could 
to  climb  the  green  slope.  Miss  Clifford  was  talking  to  Mrs. 
Smith,  but  she  saw  Rose  coming,  and  wishing  Mrs.  Smith 
"  Good  day,"  she  rode  down  the  slope  and  met  the  child. 

"  I  heard  from  Mercy  that  you  were  going  back  to  school," 
said  Miss  Clifford,  "  so  I  called  to  wish  you  good-by,  and  to 
bring  you  a  Kttle  hymn-book  like  Mercy's,  for  she  tells  me  that 
you  have  no  hymn-book,  and  were  pleased  with  her's ;  there  it 
is,  I  have  written  your  name  and  mine  in  it ;  so  now  there  will 
be  no  fear  of  forgetting  each  other — will  there  ?"  Rose  took 
the  book  from  Miss  Clifford's  hand,  and  curtsied  to  the  very 
ground,  while  her  eyes  told  her  young  heart's  gladness.  Then 
with  a  parting  smile  on  the  little  girl,  Miss  Clifford  raised  Snow- 
flake's  rein,  and  in  a  moment  more  she  was  cantering  up  the 
opposite  hill,  while  Rose  ran  with  her  treasure  to  her  mother, 
Mrs.  Smith  was  greatly  pleased  at  Miss  Clifford's  call  and  pres- 
ent to  Rose,  aftei  her  refusal  about  the  class ;  and  the  last 
evening  of  the  little  girl's  holidays  was  soothed  by  the  tender- 
ness of  all  in  her  home,  and  so  went  the  ministering  child  back 
again  to  her  school  in  the  town. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

'*How  much  better  is  It  to  get  wisdom  than  gold?  and  to  get  underetandlng  rather 
to  be  chosen  than  silver." — Peovekbs  xvi.  16. 

"  TTTHERE  is  Herbert  ?"  asked  Mr.  Clifford,  on  sitting  down  to 
* '  the  dinner-table  one  day,  as  the  month  of  January  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  "  Mr.  Herbert  came  in  late,  sir,  and  will  soon 
be  down,"  said  a  servant  in  waiting.  Herbert  quickly  entered, 
with  glowing  cheeks,  "  I  am  very  soriy  to  be  late,  mamma,  but 
papa  will  not  mind  when  I  tell  him  what  has  hindered  me  !  I 
know,  papa,  you  thought  I  never  should  be  charitable,  but  I 
shall ;  I  have  taken  up  with  it  at  last,  and  capital  fun  it  is  1" 
"  Indeed,"  replied  Mr.  Clifford,  "  Charity,  havicg  to  do  with  the 
wants,  and  often  with  the  sorrows  of  others,  is  not  generally 
associated  with  fun  ;  but  it  is  always  pleasant  to  hear  of  charity, 
so  after  dinner  we*  shall  call  on  you  for  an  account." 

"  0,  papa  !  you  take  things  in  such  a  serious  way,  it  puts  out 
all  the  fun  in  no  time  !  but  I  will  tell  you,  papa,  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  say  I  could  not  but  do  as  I  did."  So  when  the  dessert 
was  on  the  table,  Herbert  began.  "  Now,  papa,  for  my  story. 
I  had  been  skating,  and  I  thought  I  should  be  late  home,  so  to 
save  myself  the  corner  of  the  road,  I  just  cut  across  old  Willy 
Green's  garden.  I  leaped  the  ditch,  and  as  I  stopped  a  minute 
to  recover  breath,  I  saw  Willy  Green  sitting  on  a  trunk  of  a 
tree,  on  the  edge  of  his  garden  ditch,  a  little  lower  down.  I 
thought,  as  he  had  seen  me  come  in,  in  that  sort  of  way,  I  must 
stop  and  speak  to  him ;  so  I  said,  well,  Willy,  you  won't  take 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  Qd 

me  up  for  trespassing,  you  know  at  least  I  am  an  honest  lad ! 
but  he  did  not  speak  a  word,  he  only  shook  his  head,  and  sat 
panting  for  breath.  I  was  frightened  enough  then,  for  I  be- 
lieved he  was  going  to  die,  and  I  alone  with  him  there  !  So  I 
said.  Do  you  feel  ill,  Willy  ?  After  a  minute  he  managed  to 
speak,  and  then  he  said,  '  O,  master,  I  been  after  riving  a  bit  of 
^rewood,  and  I  thought  my  breath  would  never  come  again  !' 
And  there  was  his  hatchet  wedged  in  the  old  tree,  and  he  had 
not  had  the  strength  to  get  it  out  again.  I  soon  pulled  it  out 
for  him,  and  then  I  asked  him  how  he  could  think  of  trying  at 
what  he  had  no  strength  for  ?  and  he  said  he  had  been  perished 
with  cold  the  last  night,  and  laid  shivering  for  houi-s ;  so  he 
thought  he  would  try  after  a  few  chips,  just  to  make  a  blaze 
and  get  a  little  warmth  into  him,  but  that  it  had  almost  cost 
him  his  life's  end."  Herbert  saw  the  tears  fill  his  sister's  eyes, 
so  he  made  haste  to  what  he  thought  the  best  part  of  the  stoiy. 
"  Well,  papa,  I  had  spent  the  last  of  my  money  on  a  new- 
fashioned  riding-whip,  but  I  remembered  that  my  next  month's 
allowance  would  be  mine  in  a  week,  and  a  week  would  be  quite 
soon  enough  to  pay  for  some  coals,  if  I  had  them  sent  in  to  old 
Willy  to-morrow ;  and  I  thought,  papa,  you  would  not  mind 
my  giving  a  promise  in  such  a  case ;  so  I  said  to  old  Willy, 
who  was  standing  by  me,  Never  mind,  Willy ;  you  shall  not  be 
tempted  to  kill  yourself  over  an  old  log ;  and  I  gave  a  desperate 
push,  and  sent  the  old  tree  down  into  the  ditch,  for,  being  hol- 
low, it  was  not  so  heavy  as  it  looked ;  but  the  poor  old  fellow 
called  out  as  if  it  had  been  his  barn  of  a  cottage  blown  down. 
It  was  such  fun,  because  I  knew  how  I  meant  to  surprise  him  ! 
So  I  said,  Don't  break  your  heart  after  the  old  log ;  you  shall 
see  plenty  of  shining  black  coal  at  your  stile  to-morrow !  I 
thought  he  would  be  as  pleased  as  possible  at  this  ;  but  I  sup- 
pose it  seemed  to  him  too  good  to  be  true,  for  he  only  shook 


70  M    NISTERING     CHILDREN. 

his  head,  and  said,  '  I  thfink  you,  master,  but  I  fear  there  's  no 
good  comes  of  casting  away  the  least  of  God's  creatures.'  But 
I  shall  show  him  what  I  mean  when  to-morrow  comes.  I  could 
not  have  done  better ;  could  I,  papa  ?" 

"  Indeed,  Herbert,  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  youi-self  in  a  seri- 
ous difficulty :  you  seem  to  have  thrown  my  rule,  as  to  your 
monthly  allowance,  overboard,  with  old  Willy's  log.  It  can  be 
hardly  necessary  for  me  to  remind  you  of  what  I  have  repeated 
to  you  year  by  year,  that  I  never  allow  you  to  anticipate  your 
allowance  by  any  debt  or  promise.  I  give  you  what  is  amply 
sufficient  for  you,  mouth  by  month,  and  while  I  am  spared  to 
watch  over  you,  I  never  will  allow  you  to  acquire  the  habit  of 
making  the  expenditure  of  the  present  a  debt  upon  the  future." 

"  But,  papa,  it  was  only  one  week  beforehand,  and  it  was  for 
charity !" 

"  Whatever  the  length  of  time,  or  whatever  the  object,  your 
father's  rule,  my  boy,  was  the  same,  and  you  can  not  break  the 
mle  without  incurring  the  penalty.  Your  next  month's  allow- 
ance is  forfeited,  as  I  always  told  you  it  would  be  if  my  rule  was 
broken  by  you." 

"  But,  papa,  I  promised  !" 

"  You  promised  what  you  had  no  right  to  engage  for,  and 
have  no  power  to  perform  :  if  you  learn  by  this  lesson  to  avoid 
a  too  hasty  promise  through  life,  it  will  be  well  for  you  ;  and 
this  was  a  promise  made  in  direct  infringement  of  my  rule,  and 
therefore  the  sorrow  of  recalling  the  promise  must  be  yours. 
If  you  had  not  wasted  your  money,  you  would  not  have  found 
yourself  without  any,  when  a  real  want  came  before  you." 

"  Then,  papa,  I  must  leave  old  Willy  to  perish  with  cold,  and 
the  only  bit  of  firewood  he  has,  in  the  ditch  !" 

"  God  forbid,  Herbert,  that  you  should  have  a  heart,  &nd  I  a 
«on,  capable  of  such  an  act !     K  you  can  render  no  aid  to  the 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  1l 

fleedy  without  your  purse,  then  you  put  your  moLey  before  youi 
powers  of  heart,  and  mind,  and  body ;  and  this  is  a  base  substi- 
tution, and  proves  that,  for  your  own  sake,  you  have  need,  in* 
deed,  to  be  separated  from  your  purse  for  a  time." 

Herbert  said  no  more ;  he  saw  his  father  was  resolved,  and 
tliat  all  appeal  was  hopeless :  he  tried  to  restrain  his  feelings 
while  his  father  was  present,  but  when  Mr.  Clifford  retired  to 
his  study  after  dinner,  poor  Herbert's  despair  broke  forth. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  you  will  help  me,  will  you  not  ?" 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Herbert  ?" 

"  Will  you  send  as  much  coal  as  would  last  out  that  old  log  ?" 

"  No,  dear  Herbert,  I  can  not  do  that ;  the  work  is  yours,  and 
I  must  not  take  it  out  of  your  hands.  Try  to  look  at  it  calmly, 
it  is  your  first  real  difficulty  in  life,  and  all  your  future  will  be 
influenced  by  it." 

"  It  is  not  any  use  to  think  about  it,  mamma ;  if  you  will  not 
help  me,  I  shall  never  get  out  of  it.  And  perhaps  old  Willy 
will  die  with  the  cold,  and  the  whole  village  will  say  it  was  I 
who  robbed  him  of  his  firewood ;  they  will  think  I  did  it  for 
mischief,  and  never  meant  to  give  him  any  thing  better ;  and 
then,  mamma,  I  shall  hate  the  place,  and  never  be  able  to  bear 
it !"  And  Herbert  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  in  a  passion  of 
tears.  Mrs.  Clifford  remained  silent ;  and  his  sister's  face  grew 
pale,  but  she  did  not  speak.  Looking  up  at  last,  Herbert  said, 
"  Mamma,  do  you  think  that  if  I  asked  papa,  he  would  let  me 
have  a  man  to  get  the  log  out  of  the  ditch  ?  If  I  could  but 
once  right  old  Willy,  I  would  never  meddle  with  charity  again  !'* 

"  You  can  ask  your  papa,  if  you  think  it  likely,"  replied  Mrs. 
Clifford,  sorrowfully,  without  looking  at  her  son. 

"  But,  mamma,  if  papa  does  not,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Is  it  not 
dreadful  to  be  in  such  a  state  ?  It  seems  the  worst  thing  in  the 
world — to  have  gone  and  robbed  that  poor  old  fellow  of  his  log;, 


72  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

and  then  leave  him  to  perish  with  cold ;  that  is  what  he  will 
think,  and  all  the  village  will  think — it  drives  me  wild  !  will  you 
not  give  me  a  word  of  advice,  mamma  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  something,  dear  Herbert,  if  you  will  listen 
to  me." 

"  Yes,  mamma,  I  will  listen  to  any  thing ;  I  seem  to  have  no 
thoughts,  only  one  dreadful  blank  of  dead  hopeless  cold  in  me." 
And  Herbert  came  and  stood  by  his  mother's  chair,  and  put  his 
arm  around  her  neck  ;  the  storm  of  his  passion  had  spent  itself, 
but  it  was  with  a  face  expressive  of  utter  hopelessness  that  he 
stood  prepared  to  listen. 

"  When  you  were  a  little  child,  Herbert,  and  when  you  loved 
the  Bible  you  so  seldom  look  at  now,  you  were  standing  one 
day  at  my  knee,  having  tried  long  and  patiently  to  learn  that 
beautiful  verse,  *  Unto  us  a  Child  is  born,  unto  us  a  Son  is  given, 
and  the  government  shall  be  upon  His  shoulder ;  and  His  name 
shall  be  called  Wonderful,  Counselor,  The  mighty  God,  The 
Everlasting  Father,  the  Prince  of  Peace.'  When  I  had  ex- 
plained it  a  little  to  you,  I  said,  '  Herbert,  will  you  make  that 
blessed  Saviour,  God's  beloved  Son,  your  Counselor  ?'  You 
looked  very  thoughtful,  and  said,  *  I  don't  know,  mamma.'  I 
replied,  *He  is  your  papa's  Counselor,  Herbert;  your  papa 
goes  to  ask  Him  in  every  difficulty,  to  teach  him  what  to  do ; 
and  so  do  I :  if  you  do  not,  you  can  not  walk  with  us  in  the 
narrow  way  to  heaven — for  none  can  walk  in  that  way  without 
His  help.'  Then  you  looked  up,  and  said,  'I  will,  mamma; 
I  will  do  as  you  and  papa  do,  and  go  to  heaven  with  you.' 
Oh  !  Herbert,  how  earnestly  your  mother  prayed  for  you,  that 
your  infant  words  might  not  fall  to  the  ground,  but  might  be 
fulfilled  from  your  early  years.  And  now  comes  the  trial,  wheth- 
er you  will  forsake  Him  whom  you  chose  as  the  Guide  of  your 
youth,  or  whether  you  will  turn  to  that  Heavenly  Counselor, 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  7S 

and  seek  for  direction  in  your  present  trouble  where  none  ever 
tsought  it  aright  and  in  vain." 

"  But,  mamma,  it  is  so  long  since  I  have  really  prayed — if  I 
ever  did." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  to  lead  you  back  to  prayer,  dear  Herbert,  that 
you  have  been  suffered  to  fall  into  this  difficulty." 

"  But,  mamma,  what  use  is  it  to  pray,  when,  if  papa  will  not 
let  me  have  any  money,  it  is  not  possible  to  get  out  of  this 
trouble  1" 

"  Do  you  think,  Herbert,  that  God  who  made  you,  made  you 
to  be  dependent  upon  money  ?  or  that  if  you  truly  turn  to  Him, 
acknowledging  your  fault,  and  asking  His  forgiveness  and  help, 
He  could  not  aid,  and  would  not  pity  you  ?" 

"  Well,  mamma,  I  will  try,  but  indeed  it  is  very  hard  to  look 
out  into  the  dark  where  I  can  not  see  as  if  any  light  could 
come." 

"  Only  try,  dear  Herbert,  and  it  may  be  your  glad  sui-prise 
will  prove  the  first  beginning  in  your  heart  of  a  blessed  life  of 
prayer  and  praise." 

"  My  head  aches,  mamma,  and  I  have  not  begun  to  prepare 
for  my  tutor,  to-morrow,  and  he  never  will  hear  of  an  excuse 
unless  papa  speaks  for  me,  and  I  am  sure  papa  will  not  do  that 
now ;  so  I  shall  not  have  time  to  come  down  again  this  even- 
ing." 

Herbert  wished  his  mother  good  night ;  and  then  went  to 
the  sofa  where  his  sister  had  been  silently  listening  to  ali,  and 
as  he  stooped  to  kiss  her,  she  said,  "  Have  you  never  watched 
till  you  have  seen  the  first  bright  star  shine  through  the  dark 
cloud  at  night  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  that,!'  replied  Herbert. 

"  There  is  no  darkness  upon  earth,  dear  Herbert,"  said  his 
sister,  "that  God  can  not  lighten.     Prayer  is  sure  at  last  to 

4 


74 


NISTERING     CHILDREN. 


bring  a  star  in  the  dark  cloud,  if  you  do  not  give  it  up  ;"  and 
Herbert  looked  at  her  sweet  smile,  and  the  first  ray  of  peace- 
ful hope  seemed  to  steal  into  his  heart. 

Herbert  went  round  by  his  father's  study,  and  on  being  ad* 
mitted,  he  went  up  to  his  parent  and  said,  "  Will  you  forgive 
me,  papa,  for  my  disobedience  ?     I  am  very  sorry  for  it." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  boy,  you  have  my  full  forgiveness.  I  sull«.  r  as 
well  as  you,  while  I  leave  you  unaided  in  what  looks  to  you  so 
hard  a  lesson  ;  and  it  is  a  hard  one  if  you  try  i  in  any  way  bul 
the  right  way  ;  do  you  know  that  one  right  way,  Herbert  1" 

"  Yes,  papa,  I  think  I  do." 

"  If  so,  my  boy,  it  may  prove  the  best  lesson  you  have  ever 
learned,  and  sad  would  be  the  act  that  should  deprive  you  of 
the  need  to  acquire  a  knowledge  so  blessed  !" 

"  But,  papa,  if  I  get  out  of  this,  I  can  never  try  charity  again  !" 

"  I  think  that  depends  upon  -jvhether  you  get  out  of  this 
trouble  on  the  right  side  or  the  wrong.  The  after-efiect  of  all 
our  troubles  depends  upon  whether  we  scramble  out  of  them  a» 
best  we  can  on  this  world's  side,  and  by  its  way ;  or  whether 
we  ask  our  Saviour  to  give  us  His  hand  in  the  deep  waters,  and 
help  us  out  on  the  side  nearest  heaven,  on  which  none  can  get 
out  without  Him.  Suppose  I  ask  you  to  give  me  back  that  many- 
bladed  knife  I  gave  you  on  your  last  birth-day,  because,  the  first 
time  you  opened  it  you  cut  your  fingers  with  it  ?  Do  you  wish 
for  that  reason  to  part  with  it  ?" 

"  0  no,  papa,  that  was  only  the  first  time,  and  I  am  sure  any 
one  might  have  done  the  same !  I  soon  learned  to  know  the 
different  springs." 

"  And  even  so  with  blessed  charity,  my  boy — it  is  a  finely- 
tempered  instrument,  and  many  there  are  who  wound  both 
themselves  and  others  for  want  of  sldll  in  using  it.  None  but 
the  God  who  creates  it  in  man  can  ever  teach  us  to  manage  it 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  75 

ariglit.  You  have  wounded  yourself,  and  risked  ine  injuring 
another,  by  a  mistaken  use  of  it ;  but  if  you  once  learn  how  to 
use  it,  you  will  be  willing  to  part  with  your  purse,  yes,  with 
every  earthly  possession,  rather  than  with  it.  And  now,  good 
night,  and  God  bless  you,  my  child,  and  pour  into  your  heart 
that  most  excellent  gift  of  chanty,  the  very  bond  of  peace  and 
of  all  virtues,  without  which,  whosoever  liveth  is  counted  dead 
before  Him — even  true  love  to  God  and  man." 

Herbert  went  slowly  and  sorrowfully  to  his  room  to  take  his 
mother's  counsel ;  the  hope  that  for  a  moment  had  soothed  him, 
reflected  from  his  sister's  smile  and  words  of  assurance,  was 
gone  again  ;  his  head  was  heavy  and  his  prayer  was  heavy,  it 
did  not  seem  to  rise  to  heaven  or  bring  him  any  light.  He  sat 
down  to  prepare  his  lessons ;  but  all  attempts  at  study  wero 
vain,  his  thoughts  still  wandered  to  that  shivering  old  man  and 
his  wasted  log  in  the  ditch  ;  he  was  learning  a  deeper  lesson,  in 
which  his  books  of  human  learning  could  not  aid  him,  and  his 
mind  refused  to  turn  to  studies  which  yielded  no  sympathy  in 
his  pressing  need.  Weary  with  the  vain  struggle  of  feeling,  he 
thought  he  would  lie  down  on  his  pillow  and  try  to  lose  him- 
self and  his  trouble  in  sleep — but  he  could  only  wake  to  find 
all  the  same  as  he  had  left  it.  Then  his  sister's  words  came 
back  upon  his  heart — "  Prayer  is  sure  at  last  to  bring  a  star  in 
the  dark  cloud — if  you  do  not  give  it  up,"  so  kneeling  down 
again  he  tried  to  lift  the  same  heavy  heart  and  heavy  prayer  to 
heaven.  He  rose  and  drew  back  his  curtain,  and  standing 
within  it  looked  up  to  the  sunless  sky;  the  heavy  clouds  wore 
chasing  each  other  across  the  low  horizon,  and  not  a  star  was 
visible.  Yet,  thought  Herbert,  the  stars  are  still  the  same,  and 
perhaps  to-morrow  night  the  sky  will  be  cloudless ;  but  I  shall 
have  no  comfort,  for  no  stars* lie  for  me  behind  my  trouble  !  He 
turned  back  asjain  into  his  room  ;  he  had  placed  his  lamp  m  a 


70  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

further  corner  wheu  lie  went  to  tlie  window,  and  now  as  b«3 
looked  toward  it,  its  light  fell  on  the  crimson  cover  of  his 
Bible,  and  he  remembered  his  mother's  words,  "  that  Bible, 
Herbert,  you  so  seldom  look  at  now  !"  He  went  and  t:)ok  it 
sorrowfully  and  hopelessly  down,  but  still  he  took  it — ^li<i  took 
the  Book  whose  words  are  spirit  and  life — he  took  the  Book 
whose  words  can  wake  the  dead,  can  turn  darkness  into  light, 
and  warm  the  heart,  and  nerve  the  spirit,  with  a  living  energy 
that  death  itself  has  no  power  to  destroy — Herbert  took  his 
Bible,  and  sitting  down,  he  opened  it  at  the  first  chapter  of  the 
book  of  James,  and  there  alone  beside  his  lamp,  his  elbow  rest- 
ing on  the  table,  and  his  heavy  head  upon  his  hand,  he  looked 
upon  the  sacred  p;'ge  and  read  till  he  came  to  the  words — "  If 
any  of  you  lack  wisdom,  let  him  ask  of  God,  that  giveth  to  all 
men  liberally,  and  upbraideth  not ;  and  it  shall  be  given  him ; 
but  let  him  ask  in  faith,  nothing  wavering."  He  read  no  fur- 
ther ;  the  sacred  word  had  spoken  to  him,  it  knew  his  need, 
and  answered  to  that  need,  with  a  voice  that  searched  far  deep- 
er than  any  other  words  had  done.  His  mother  had  told  him 
to  pray  ;  but  his  Bible  had  told  him  how,  even  with  "  faith" — 
believing  that  God  would  hear  and  answer ;  his  sister  had  told 
him  that  whatever  our  dark  trouble  might  be,  prayer  could 
bring  a  bright  star  shining  through  it ;  but  his  Bible  men- 
tioned the  very  star  he  wanted,  even  "  wisdom" — the  light  of 
wisdom  to  show  him  what  to  do.  And  now  once  more  he 
knelt  to  ask  with  hope  in  God,  whose  word  of  promise  his 
heart  had  found  in  his  time  of  need.  He  asked  again  that  he 
might  be  able  to  find  some  right  way  out  of  his  trouble.  And 
then  his  thoughts  wandered  over  the  \'illage.  Always  bent  on 
his  own  amusement,  he  had  taken  no  interest  in  the  wants  or 
the  comforts  of  any  one  there,  no  eye  had  looked  in  grateful 
love  upon  him,  no  voice  had  blessed  him.     He  knew  not  how 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  77 

jO  ^k  the  aid  of  those  of  whose  comfort  he  had  proved  him- 
self regardless.  Then  the  rich  boy  felt  his  true  position,  not 
allowed  now  to  fall  back  on  the  aid  of  any  in  his  father's  ser- 
vice, he  did  not  know  one  to  whom  he  could  turn  for  help  in 
his  trouble — ^it  was  as  a  lightning-flash  that  pierced  through 
the  tinsel  of  wealth  and  showed  him  his  personal  poverty,  in  all 
save  that  which  a  hasty  word  had  the  power  to  deprive  him  of. 
But  while  thinking  on  all  who  dwelt  around  him,  among  whom 
he  could  not  see  one  whose  love  he  had  won,  one  on  whose 
wilhng  aid  he  had  any  right  to  depend  ;  suddenly  he  saw  again 
in  memory  the  son  of  widow  Jones,  "  honest  Jem,"  as  he  had 
seen  him  in  reahty  a  few  days  before,  feeding  farmer  Smith's 
sheep,  the  sheep  all  gathering  round  him,  eating  sometimes 
from  the  turnips  at  his  feet,  and  when  they  failed  there,  looking 
up  to  his  hand  which  reached  them  out  a  supply,  while  one 
httle  weakly  lamb,  held  safe  under  his  arm,  nibbled  a  turnip 
held  for  it  in  his  left  hand.  The  scene  on  the  snowy  field  was 
so  pretty  that  old  Jenks  the  coachman  had  driven  slowly  by, 
saying  to  Herbert,  who  was  on  the  coach-box  at  his  side,  "I 
would  trust  that  lad,  if  I  were  in  want  of  a  friend,  as  soon  as 
I  would  any  man  in  the  parish  !"  And  the  thought  came  into 
Herbert's  mind,  that  if  Jenks  would  trust  the  shepherd-lad  to 
be  his  friend,  he  might  trust  him  too.  The  remembrance  of 
the  young  shepherd  brought  so  much  relief  to  Herbert,  that  he 
gave  thanks,  and  said  his  evening  prayer  with  a  more  cheerful 
heart,  and  then  lay  down  on  his  pillow  and  fell  asleep. 

His  anxious  mother  came  into  his  room,  and  thought,  as  she 
looked  at  her  sleeping  child,  "Has  then  sleep  such  power  to 
restore  peace  to  the  troubled  brow  ?  how  deep  the  repose  of  his 
expression  now !  Alas,  poor  boy,  will  he  awake  to  the  same 
dijti'ess  ?  0  that  some  light  may  break  upon  him,  some  true 
thought  guide  him  !"     While  still  his  mother  lingered,  Heiberl 


78  MINISTERINC+     CHILDREN. 

opened  liis  eyes,  his  mother  stooped  down  to  him,  and  he  thre^ 
his  arms  round  her  neck. 

"  0  !  mamma,  you  were  ^uite  right,  quite  right !  I  thought 
it  was  all  no  use,  but  then  that  young  shepherd  of  farmer 
Smith's  came  into  my  mind ;  you  know  who  I  mean,  mamma  ; 
they  call  him  in  the  vdllage  '  honest  Jem ;' — he  is  the  only 
person  I  could  ask  to  do  a  kindness  for  me  now  that  I  have  no 
money  to  pay  them.  I  think  every  one  else  would  expect  me 
to  pay  them,  but  I  don't  think  that  he  would,  from  what  Jenks 
said  the  other  day.  Do  you  think  that  w^ould  do,  mamma  ? 
Do  you  think  papa  would  mind  my  asking  him  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  you  have  fixed  upon  quite  the  right  person.  I 
have  heard  your  sister  speak  in  his  praise,  and  your  father  only 
feels  it  right  not  to  furnish  you  with  help  from  any  resources 
of  his  own ;  he  wishes  you  to  find  a  remedy  of  yourself  and 
independent  of  your  home ;  that  you  may  both  learn  and  re- 
member the  lesson  he  hopes  that  this  trial  may  teach  you." 

"  But,  then,  mamma,  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  off  by  six  o'clock  to 
the  sheep,  and  he  would  say  he  could  not  give  his  master's  time 
to  me,  so  I  must  be  up  and  off  by  five  o'clock,  or  sooner  than  that, 
to  give  time  to  drag  the  old  log  up  again.  O,  I  do  think  I  shall 
have  it  up  by  to-morrow  night,  and  it  makes  me  so  thankful !" 

"  And  does  nothing  else  make  you  thankful,  my  child  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  because  I  know  where  the  thought  came 
from !  and  it  was  my  Bible  that  first  seemed  really  to  comfort 
me,  and  help  me  to  pray." 

"  And  then,  Herbert,  when  you  have  taken  this  first  step  in  the 
narrow  way — that  way  which  is  only  entered  by  prayer,  shall  you 
wish  to  leave  it  again,  and  forget  all  that  has  helped  you  now  ?" 

"No,  I  hope  I  should  not  wish  to  leave  it,  mamma,  but 
I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  walk  in  it :  do  you 
think  it  would  all  be  so  hai'd  as  this  has  been  ?" 


MINIBTEltlNG     CHILDREN  79 

"  What  was  it  tliat  made  tliis  hard,  can  you  tell  me  that  ?" 

"  Why,  it  was  my  own  ftmlt,  mamma,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  God  does  not  willingly  afflict  or  grieve  :  His  ways  are 
pleasantness,  and  His  paths  peace." 

"  But  then,  mamma,  I  am  always  getting  into  trouble,  so  that 
I  should  soon  be  in  another,  I  am  afraid  I" 

"  And  if  you  are,  dear  Herbert,  would  it  be  no  comfort  to 
you  to  have  the  same  Heavenly  Father,  who  has  answered  you 
now,  to  go  to  as  your  Guide  in  every  diflSculty  ?  and  might  you 
not  hope  to  cleanse  your  way  from  its  present  so  frequent  faults, 
by  taking  heed  thereto  according  to  His  Word  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  perhaps  I  might ;  I  do  hope  I  shall  try,  for  I 
feel  very  different  to-night  to  what  I  did  before." 

And  so  the  mother  blessed  her  child  and  left  him  to  his  rest. 

Left  to  himself,  Herbert's  thoughts  turned  again  to  old  Willy. 
Was  the  old  man  then  shivering  in  his  bed  ?  he  had  not  had 
the  little  fire  of  chips  he  had  hoped  for,  to  warm  him  with,  be- 
fore he  slept !  Herbert  had  not  remembered  this  before,  and 
saddened  again  with  this  fresh  recollection  he  fell  asleep ;  he 
slept  and  dreamed.  Herbert  thought  in  his  dreams,  that,  un- 
able to  rest,  he  rose  from  his  bed,  and  went  by  night  to  see 
whether  old  Willy  were  indeed  lying  shivering  with  cold.  He 
walked  along  the  well-known  road,  crossed  the  little  stile  into 
old  Willy's  garden,  and  gently  opened  the  cottage-door :  all 
was  still  within  the  cottage,  and  there  at  the  further  corner  of 
the  room  lay  old  Willy  sleeping  in  his  bed;  and,  leaninn^ 
where  the  low  bed-post  rose — bending  over  and  watching  old 
Willy,  a  radiant  angel  stood.  The  old  man  was  asleep  ;  he 
looked  full  of  peace,  and  drew  his  breath  as  gently  as  an  infant, 
and  smiled  as  if  he  dreamed  of  holy  things.  Herbert  thought 
that  he  did  not,  feel  at  all  afraid  of  the  angel,  and  the  bright  angel 
tamed  his  fa  le  of  love  and  looked  on  Herbert,  and  said  to  him 


80  MINISTERING     CHILDREN.      * 

"  My  cliild,  what  brings  you  here  by  night  ?" 

"  I  came,"  replied  Herbert,  "  to  see  whether  old  Willy  slept,  or 
whether  he  was  lying  shivering  with  the  cold,  as  he  told  me  he 
did  last  night." 

"  He  did  shiver  long,"  said  the  bright  angel,  "  before  he  feP 
Rs^leep,  l)Ut  he  has  slept  some  hours  now ;  I  count  the  momenta 
wliile  he  sleeps,  for  when  he  wakes  he  must  feel  the  cold  of  this 
house  and  shiver  again." 

"  Can  not  you  keep  old  Willy  from  feeling  the  cold  when  he 
wakes  ?"  asked  Herbert. 

'*  jSTo,"  replied  the  angel  gravely,  "  I  can  not  do  that ;  that  work 
of  love  is  yours.  You  could  not  do  my  work,  and  I  can  not  do 
yours." 

"  What  is  your  work  ?"  asked  Herbert. 

"  You  could  not  understand  my  work  if  I  were  to  tell  you,  be- 
cause it  is  only  an  angel's  work ;  but  you  can  understand  your  own, 
because  your  God  and  our  God  has  taught  you  in  His  Word. 

"  I  did  mean  to  have  made  old  Willy  warm,"  said  Herbert, 
''  but  I  have  no  money  now." 

"  Poor  child  !  can  you  do  nothing  without  money  ?"  asked 
the  radiant  angel.  "  Do  you  wish  to  help  any — pray  for  them, 
and  you  will  soon  find  you  are  taught  how  to  help  them.  You 
must  hearken  to  the  voice  of  God's  Word — that  is  how  holy 
angels  learned  their  work  in  Heaven,  and  that  is  how  you  must 
learn  yours  on  earth." 

Then  the  bright  angel  turned  and  looked  again  on  old  Willy,  and 
Herbert  awoke  from  his  sleep.  At  first  he  wondered  where  he  was, 
but  he  heard  the  ticking  of  his  watch,  and  starting  up  he  lit  his 
candle  and  looked  at  the  time  ;  it  was  nearly  five  o'clock ;  so 
Iiaving  dressed,  and  offered  up  his  morning  prayer,  he  crept  softly 
down  stairs,  let  himself  out,  and  went  forth  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER    VII. 


'Pleasant  •vrords  are  as  a  honey-comb,  sweet  to  the  soul,  and  Lealth  to  the 
bones."— Peoveebs  xvL  24. 


I 


HAVE  no  doubt  Jem  is  used  to  logs,  and  knows  how  to 
manage  them,"  thought  Herbert,  as  he  walked  along.  "  I 
did  not  bring  a  cord  with  me,  but  he  is  sure,  I  should  think,  t< 
have  cords  at  his  cottage ;  people  who  have  to  do  with  work 
must  always  be  wanting  such  things."  The  road  was  longer  than 
Herbert  had  supposed,  and  though  he  ran  and  walked  by  turns, 
yet  the  time  went  on  apace,  and  Jem's  cottage  was  still  distant 
At  last  he  saw  the  dim  beginning  of  the  lane,  and  a  figure  come 
up  it  and  turn  the  corner  of  another  road.  "  Hallo !  stop  there  !" 
cried  Herbert,  and  running  on,  he  found  the  figure,  now  stand- 
ing still,  to  be  none  other  than  Jem  himself,  with  his  bill-hook 
hanging  from  his  hand,  and  his  hatchjt  over  his  shoulder.  Jem 
knew  the  young  Squire  by  sight,  and  exclaimed,  "  Why,  Mr. 
Clifford,  sir  !  I  hope  there 's  nothing  happened  !" 

"  Nothing,  I  hope,  but  what  you  can  set  right,"  replied  Her- 
bert, "  if  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  come  to  my  help." 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I  am  ready  right  away,"  said  Jem,  still 
in  a  maze  of  astonishment  at  what  could  have  befallen  the 
young  Squire  at  such  an  hour  in  the  morning. 

"  I  'm  afraid  it 's  later  than  I  thought,  or  you  are  earlier : 
how  are  you  off  for  time  ?"  asked  Herbert. 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  sir,  I  am  my  own  master  now  for  a  bit,  as 
the  saying  is." 

♦* 


82  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  How  is  that  ?  I  thought  you  kept  the  sheep  on  Farmei 
Smith's  farm  ?" 

"  So  I  do,  sir ;  but  just  as  this  year  came  in,  master  gave  me 
a  job  of  hedging  and  ditching ;  and  now  he  has  been  so  good 
as  to  let  me  have  another  turn  of  it ;  and  master  has  set  the 
man  Billy  Warren  for  the  time  to  look  after  my  sheep  ;  so  you 
see,  sir,  the  hour  is  nothing  particular,  because,  as  I  take  it  by 
the  job,  master  don't  mind  an  hour  one  way  or  the  other — so 
there  's  no  need  to  be  looking  after  that." 

Herbert  felt  the  light  of  hope,  that  had  led  him  to  Jem, 
brighten,  at  the  words  of  the  kind-nearted  lad,  and  was  about  to 
turn  round  for  old  Willy's,  when  ne  remembered  the  cord. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  shall  want  a  cord,"  said  Herbert,  "  and  I  did 
not  bring  one.  I  suppose  you  keep  such  things  always  at  hand 
in  your  house  ?" 

"  Dear  me,  no,  sir  !  it  is  not  much  we  have  to  turn  to,  save  a 
pair  of  hands  and  feet,  thanks  be  to  Heaven  for  them,  and  the 
notion  how  to  use  them  ;  but  if  a  cord  be  the  want,  I  can  soon 
fetch  one  down  from  master's  at  the  farm." 

"  There  is  nothing  can  be  done  in  this  job  without  it,"  replied 
Herbert,  v/ho  felt  that  now  he  must  come  to  a  confession.  "  The 
mischief  is,  that  yesterday  I  found  old  Willy  Green  killing  him- 
self almost,  over  an  old  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  I  hoped  to  have 
been  able  to  send  him  in  some  coals  to-day,  so  I  tumbled  the  old 
log  down  into  his  ditch  ;  but  I  had  forgotten  myself  when  1 
promised  the  coal,  and  now  I  find  I  can  not  keep  my  word,  and 
I  have  been  almost  distracted  about  it ;  and  I  want  to  get  the 
old  log  up  again,  and  I  did  not  know  who  to  ask  to  stand  ray 
friend  and  help  me,  but  I  thought  perhaps  you  would ;  but  if 
you  take  a  look  at  it  first,  you  will  better  know  what  we  shall 
want  to  get  it  up  with." 

"  As,  you  please,  sir,"  said  Jem,  and  he  turned  and  followed 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  83 

at  Herbert's  side.  The  two  walked  in  silence  on,  tlie  pnnt  of 
Herbert's  light  foot  fell  side  by  side  in  the  snow  with  the 
impress  of  the  heavy  tread  of  Jem's  step  of  toil  and  strength. 
Herbert  thought  to  himself,  "  Jem  does  not  like  the  job,  I  am 
sure,  or  he  would  have  said  something  more  than,  '  As  you 
please,  sir.'  I  wish  I  could  find  out  what  he  feels  abou',  help- 
ing me  in  it ;  it  is  so  wretched  not  to  know !  I  must  make 
him  say  something."  "  I  am  afraid,  Jem,"  said  Herbert,  "  you 
are  thinking  you  don  t  like  the  business  ;  but  if  you  could 
just  help  me  through  with  it,  I  should  always  teel  grateful  to 
you !" 

Now,  Jem  understood  that  he  was  expected  to  speak,  and 
when  once  he  understood  that,  he  Avas  always  ready,  and  his 
words  were  sure,  when  they  did  come,  to  come  warm  with 
the  glow  of  his  kind,  true  heart :  he  replied,  "  Well,  master, 
I  was  just  thinking  I  ought  to  have  been  at  it  alone,  instead  of 
your  being  waked  up  before  so  much  as  a  mouse  has  oped 
its  eye ;  and  if  I  had  but  known,  sure  enough  I  would,  and 
I  might  have  known,  if  I  had  had  half  a  thought — as  the  say- 
ing is." 

"  You  could  not  have  known,"  replied  Herbert ;  "  it  was  only 
yesterday  I  did  it." 

"  Well,  sir,  that  may  be,  but  I  might  have  known  that  poor 
old  man  would  come  to  the  want  of  firewood,  such  weather  as 
this  has  been  ;  instead  of  leaving  him,  who  has  no  more 
strength  than  a  child,  nor  yet  so  much,  to  be  hacking  at  that 
old  stump ;  and  then  it  was  I  set  it  down  so  near  the  ditch,  I 
thought  to  leave  it  out  of  the  way  ;  but  may  bo  it 's  all  for  the 
best,  as  mother  is  so  often  saying."  And,  with  Jem's  last  word, 
they  stopped  at  the  stile.  Herbert  sprang  over,  with  a  heart 
almost  as  light  as  his  step,  for  its  heavy  weight  had  melted 
away  under  the  sunshine  of  Jem's  kind  words.     Jem  followed 


84  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

after  liim,  and  tliey  were  soon  at  the  edge  of  the  ditch,  both 
looking  down  in  the  dim  gray  twilight  of  morning  on  the  old 
stump  below. 

There  stood  the  poor  boy,  with  hatchet  over  his  shoulder, 
and  bill-hook  in  his  hand,  surveying  the  log  from  above — ^his 
was  the  strength  to  aid,  his  the  skill  to  devise  how,  his  the 
willing  mind ;  and  there  stood  Herbert  by  his  side  in  helpless 
dependence,  with  eyes  of  hope  and  fear  now  fixed  on  Jem — 
then  on  the  log  below.  Jem  stood  in  silence  a  few  moments, 
then  down  he  laid  his  bill-hook,  and,  springing  into  the  ditch, 
planted  his  feet  upon  the  log,  and,  raising  his  hatchet  with 
both  hands  above  his  head,  fetched  a  stroke  which  clave  a  slit, 
where  it  entered  the  wood,  about  twice  the  length  of  the  blade 
"  That 's  the  job,  sir,"  said  Jem,  looking  up  to  Herbert  from 
below  ;  "  it 's  not  a  bit  of  use  for  us  to  be  thinking  We  could 
haul  the  old  log  up  again  ;  why,  a  horse  could  not  do  it !  But 
a  few  such  strokes  as  that  will  bring  it  up  in  a  right  sort  of  a 
way — all  ready  for  use  !"  A  second  time  the  ponderous  hatchet, 
raised  by  those  strong  arms  and  firm  and  honest  hands,  fell 
with  unerring  aim,  splitting  the  wood  beside  one  of  the  hard 
knots  of  the  old  trunk.  "  That 's  kind,  now,"  said  Jem,  in  a 
conciliating  tone,  to  the  old  log ;  "  that 's  just  doing  as  you 
should,  9,nd  splitting  right  away  as  I  meant !"  Herbert  laughed 
at  Jem's  soliloquy  to  the  log  ;  a  happy  laugh,  for  bright 
thoughts  were  breaking  in  on  his  heart — thoughts  of  raising 
the  log  all  ready  for  old  Willy's  use,  and  seeing  it  raised  by 
hands  that  seemed  to  love  the  labor — ^thoughts  that  broke  on 
Herbert's  trouble  like  the  gleams  of  the  sun  now  shining  across 
the  darkened  sky  of  night.  Str  jke  followed  stroke,  without  an- 
other pause,  till  the  first  log,  severed  from  the  parent  •  trunk, 
lay  at  the  feet  of  honest  Jem  ;  down  sprang  Herbert  into  mud 
and  mire,  seized  it  in  his  hands,  and,  scrambling  up  again. 


|..  84. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  85 

lifted  the  log  above  his  head,  and  gave  a  loud  "  Hurrah  !" 
Never  did  shout  of  triumph  ring  more  joyfully  after  the  past 
trial  of  despair,  than  this  from  Herbert's  lips  :  he  shouted  it 
with  voice  as  loud  and  clear  as  if  he  thought  to  reach  the  ears 
of  love  within  his  home,  with  this  his  first  glad  utterance  since 
his  trouble  had  begun :  but  his  parents  heard  it  not — fpr  joy, 
in  our  obstructed  atmosphere,  heavy  with  sin  and  with  sorrow, 
stiJ  pauses  on  the  wing,  and  waits  a  messenger  to  bear  her  on 
her  way — not  so  in  Heaven,  where  sin  and  where  sorrow  are 
not !  But  though  the  note  of  triumph  reached  not  the  hearts 
that  would  have  echoed  back  its  gladness,  it  did  Ml  on  old 
Willy's  ear,  and  roused  him  from  his  slumber — to  him  it 
was  a  signal  of  surprise  and  fear.  He  opened  the  little  case- 
ment above  his  bed,  and  looked  in  terror  from  it,  expecting  to 
see  a  company  of  thieves  stealing  his  early  vegetables.  Her- 
bert heard  the  little  window  open,  and  saw  the  old  man's 
troubled  face — "  It 's  no  thief,  Willy,  we  will  keep  watch  !"  but 
old  Willy  still  looked  out  into  the  dim  light,  anxious  and  fear- 
ful. "  Never  fear,  daddy,  it 's  I ! "  said  Jem.  And  Herbert  saw 
the  change  that  passed  across  the  face  of  the  old  man  at  that 
true-hearted  voice,  as  he  shut  his  little  window  to  lie  down 
again  and  sleep;  while  Herbert  turned  gravely  back,  log  in 
hand,  to  Jem.  "  Old  Willy  is  not  your  father,  is  he  ?"  asked 
Herbert.  "  No,  sir,  I  can't  say  he  is,  but  I  got  in  the  way  of 
caUing  him  so  when  I  was  a  child,  and  so  I  keep  to  it,  and 
may  be  it  cheers  him  now,  for  he  has  none  belonging  to  him 
that  have  a  care  to  see  after  him  ;  not  but  what  he  is  worth  a 
dozen  and  more  of  them  that  neglect  him  !  but,  by  what  I  can 
see,  it 's  the  way  of  this  world — as  the  saying  is — to  slight 
them  that  are  old  and  feeble."  All  the  time  of  this  reply,  Jem 
had  been  an-anging  his  pi  m  for  a  second  attack  upon  the  log, 
and  now  away  again  went  the  hatchet,  stroke  after  stroke,  but 


86  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

tlie  wood  was  hard,  and  Jem  began  his  pacific  discourse  again, 
*'  ^'ell  now,  you  had  best  give  in  at  once,  for  I  can  tell  you  'tis 
your  master  upon  you,  and  there  's  no  use  in  standing  out,  'tis 
only  wasting  your  time  and  mine  !"  Whether  the  log  took  the 
hint,  or  whether  the  hatchet  took  the  exact  grain  of  the  wood, 
we  need  not  ascertain,  but  so  it  was  that  a  capital  cleft  was  the 
result  of  the  next  stroke,  and  Jem  pursued  his  advantage  so 
vigorously,  that  Herbert  soon  laid  a  second  log  by  the  side  of 
the  first. 

"  Do  you  always  talk  to  yourself  in  that  way  ?"  asked  Herbert. 

"  It 's  not  so  much  to  myself  I  talk,  sir,  as  to  the  thing  I  ani 
aft^r ;  it  makes  it  seem  more  company-like,  and  gets  me  into  s 
bett^er  humor  with  it ;  and  I  am  so  in  the  way  of  it  now  I  don't 
always  know  how  to  get  on  without  it,  when  may  be  I  ought. 
I  took  to  it  young,  and  that 's  why  it  hangs  to  me  so,  I  suppose ; 
for  you  see,  sir,  my  mother  was  left  a  widow  when  I  was  but  a 
few  months  old,  and  she  has  often  said  how  she  missed  the  kind 
word  of  my  poor  father  more  than  the  money  he  earned  her, 
though  she  had  to  labor  hard  enough ;  and  then  people  spoke 
short  to  her  in  her  trouble  ;  and  took  it  as  a  burden  laid  on 
them ;  as  you  know,  sir,  the  wddow  and  the  fatherless  are  al- 
ways taken  to  be  when  they  come  on  a  parish ;  and  as  long 
back  as  I  can  remember,  I  have  seen  her  fret  for  a  rough  word, 
and  then  I  have  seen  her  wholly  cheered  up  by  a  kind  one  ,  so 
it  came  to  me  young  enough,  that  good  words  must  be  among 
the  best  of  good  things,  if  they  do  but  come  from  the  heart — 
as  the  saying  is,  and  so  I  tried  at  them  myself ;  and  I  have 
found,  times  and  often,  that  a  good  word  will  do  it  when  %  bad 
one  won't,  and  by  reason  of  that  I  have  got  in  the  way,  and 
now  I  don't  know  as  that  I  could  get  out  of  it ;  but  it 's  not 
WORDS  will  do  ALL,"  added  Jem,  as  he  prepared  himself  for 
u  fresh  onset  upon  the  log.    Stroke  after  stroke,  stroke  after 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  87 

Etroke,  witli  good  words  in  between,  till  a  third  and  larger  log 
was  separated  from  the  trunk.  Herbert  laid  his  treasures  side 
hj  side,  as  he  would  have  laid  fox  or  hare  from  the  hunt  a  few 
days  before. 

"  Now,  Jem,"  said  Herbert,  "  you  have  given  me  one  of  the 
best  gifts,  I  declare,  that  I  ever  had  in  my  life,  and  you  must  not 
be  kept  here  any  longer.  If  I  could  but  find  old  Willy's  hatchet, 
I  would  try  at  it  myself  before  I  go  back." 

"  Well,  sir,  as  for  that,  my  time  is  my  own  ;  master  won't  be 
against  an  hour  or  so  either  way." 

"  No,  Jem,  but  it 's  the  strength  it  costs  you,  and  you  must 
not  spend  all  you  have  upon  me." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  won't  go  against  your  word,  but  as  for  strength, 
I  'm  only  getting  it  up  by  those  few  strokes  ;  there  's  no  fear  of 
beiug  the  weaker  for  a  stroke  for  them  that  can't  strike  for  them- 
selves." Herbert  looked  inquiringly  at  Jem,  uncertain  whether 
he  meant  him  or  old  Willy  by  "  them  that  can 't  strike  for  them- 
selves ;"  but  Jem  in  his  honest  simplicity  understood  not  the 
awakened  start  of  the  young  spirit's  independence  ;  but  he  did 
understand  that  he  was  to  retire,  when,  in  a  moment  more, 
Herbert  flung  off  his  coat  as  Jem  had  done,  laying  down  his 
hat  upon  it,  and  springing  on  the  log,  seized  Jem's  hatchet,  and 
raised  it  above  his  head  in  the  act  to  sti-ike.  "  Have  a  care,  sir, 
for  Heaven's  sake,  have  a  care  '."cried  Jem,  entreatingly — ^as  hav- 
mg  sprung  on  the  brow  of  the  ditch  he  looked  down  on  Herbert, 
'  That  old  hatchet  is  as  sharp  as  any  thing,  and  if  it  slips  the 
wood,  it  may  take  your  feet  as  hke  as  not."  Herbert  paused  a 
minute  while  Jem  gave  full  instructions  how  to  place  his  feet, 
now  to  avoid  the  knots  of  the  old  trunk,  and  to  take  it  in  the 
grain  of  the  wood.  At  last  the  stroke  was  given,  a  little  way 
— some  poor  half-inch  the  hatchet  condescended  to  enter — and 
no  more.     "  That  could  not  have  been  done  better  for  the  first  T 


88  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

said  Jem ;  "  but  I  am  tliinking,  sir,  there  are  as  many  logs  aa 
old  Willy  will  burn  in  a  day :  but  if  you  have  a  mind  to  work 
in  right  earnest,  why  he  will  be  in  want  of  a  few  chips  to  help 
make  the  old  logs  burn,  and  it  will  be  best  to  begin  with  them, 
till  the  strength  gets  up  a  bit,  and  the  knack  of  the  other  geta 
known  ;  it 's  not  learned  in  an  hour  to  cut  up  an  old  log,  and  you 
were  not  bom  to  it,  you  see,  sir ;  so  it  don't  come  natural." 

"  I  suppose  I  was  born  to  help  the  poor  !"  said  Herbert,  look- 
ing up  gravely  into  Jem's  pleading  face  above  him — his  own 
glowing  with  the  effort  of  the  recent  stroke,  and  the  rays  of  the 
morning  sun  falling  like  Heaven's  blessing  on  his  young  un- 
covered head.  "  I  was  born,  I  suppose,  to  help  the  poor !"  again 
repeated  Herbert,  looking  thoughtfully  down  on  the  old  log  at 
his  feet ;  "  but  if  you  think  old  Willy  will  want  chips,  I  will 
not  be  against  trying  at  them  first." 

"  That  he  will,  sir,  and  daddy's  bill-hook  is  not  so  heavy  as 
mine  by  half ;  I  can  find  it  up  in  his  old  log-house."  The  bill- 
hook was  found,  and  springing  down  on  the  log,  Jem  gave  Her- 
bert a  lesson  in  cutting  chips  ;  and  then  away  went  honest  Jem 
to  his  work  for  the  day,  the  risen  sun  gilding  the  sky. 

Herbert  toiled  away  at  the  log  to  his  great  satisf^iction,  till  he 
suddenly  remembered  the  time  ;  then,  without  further  delay,  he 
carried  the  chips  that  lay  scattered  around  him,  and  piled  Lhem 
up  by  the  precious  logs  at  old  Willy's  door,  when  sudde  the 
door  opened,  and  the  old  man  looked  out. 

"  Bless  you,  master,  what  are  you  after  now  ?"  said  o^  Willy, 
in  a  wonderment  at  sight  of  the  young  Squire,  soiled,  •  i  laden 
with  chips.  Herbert  looked  up,  his  healthful  effort  shedding 
as  bright  a  crimson  on  his  cheeks  as  the  risen  sun  ha«  but  now 
shed  upon  the  morning  sky,  and  laying  down  his  b  .rden  close 
beside  the  door,  he  replied,  "  ^\niy,  Willy,  I  am  very  sorry,  but 
I  promised  what  I  could  not  perform.     I  am  very  sorry,  WTlj, 


MINIBIERING     CHILDREN.  89 

but  I  can  not  buy  so  much  as  a  shovel-full  of  coals.  I  don't 
mind  telling  you,  Willy,  but  I  have  forfeited  my  money  that  1 
have  to  spend  for  my  o^vn,  and  so  I  got  Jem  to  help  me  get  up 
your  log  again,  but  it  was  too  heavy,  and  so  he  cut  those  logs 
off,  and  I  cut  the  chips  !     Won't  you  be  warm  now,  Willy  1" 

"  Yes,  bless  you  !"  said  the  old  man,  and  his  voice  trembled 
with  feeling  ;  "  warm  outside  and  in  too  !  And  it 's  a  deal  bet- 
ter than  casting  away  one  of  God's  good  creatures,  to  make 
room  for  another.  I  had  wholly  a  dread  to  see  the  coals  come 
in,  and  my  old  log  left  at  the  bottom  of  the  ditch.  And  then, 
master,  it  was  the  hand  of  kindness  that  gave  it  me,  and  I 
thought  it  seemed  hard  to  cast  it  away  like  that." 

"  Who  gave  it  you  ?"  asked  Herbert,  with  a  quick  idea  that 
it  perhaps  had  been  Jem  himself. 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir.  Farmer  Smith  has  set  Jem — ^my  Jem,  as 
I  call  him — to  a  job  of  hedging  and  ditching,  and  so  one  day 
he  came  here  with  his  barrow  and  that  old  log  in  it,  and  he 
said,  '  Here,  daddy,  I  have  made  mother  a  fire  for  many  a  day 
.o  come,  and  this  old  log  is  for  you ;  now,  don't  you  be  after 
jacking  on  it ;  I  '11  set  it  right  away  against  the  ditch  here,  and 
then,  when  I  get  a  little  further  on  in  my  job,  I  '11  take  an  hour 
at  it  as  I  can,  and  soon  have  it  in  pieces  for  you.'  And  so  it 
just  eases  me  that  it 's  not  all  gone  for  nothing,  after  his  taking 
that  care  after  me.  But  you  will  catch  cold,  master,  out  in  this 
freezing  air." 

"  0  no,  Willy,  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,"  replied  Herbert,  who 
had  been  listening  with  anxious  attention  to  the  discovery  that 
the  log  had  been  Jem's  gift  at  the  beginning  ;  "  but,"  added  he, 
"  I  am  off  to  breakfast  now ;  and  be  sure  you  get  up  a  blaze 
with  those  chips ;  I  shall  come  to  look  after  it,  so  be  sure  you 
do  !"  And  Herbert  was  off,  while  the  old  man,  leaning  on  hia 
stick  with  one  hand,  and  shading  his  eyes  with  the  other  from 


90  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

tlie  radiance  of  the  eastern  sky,  watched  hira  out  of  sight ;  then 
turning  back  into  his  cottage,  began  to  light  up  his  fire  and  pre- 
"oarc  his  frugal  meal. 

"  Well,  Herbert,  my  boy,  is  all  right  ?"  said  his  father,  as  he 
gave  him  his  morning  embrace. 

"  Yes,  papa,  getting  right,  I  hope.  I  am  sure,  mamma,  that 
thouo'ht  of  Jem  was  rio^ht  enouojh,  for  he  is  the  best  fellow  I 
ever  saw  ;  he  was  just  all  that  I  wanted !  And  we  are  not 
going  to  drag  up  the  old  log,  but  cut  it  all  to  pieces  down 
there  in  the  ditch,  and  get  it  up  ready  for  use — is  not  that  capi- 
tal, papa  ?  And  I  cut  the  chips,  and  I  am  to  cut  some  logs  an- 
other time  ;  and  I  made  up  such  a  pile  at  old  Willy's  door  !  I 
mean  to  go  down  after  my  lessons,  and  see  what  sort  of  a  fire 
he  has.  And  only  think,  mamma !  it  was  Jem  himself  who  had 
carried  the  log  for  old  Willy's  fire,  and  meant  to  cut  it  up  for 
him  ;  old  Willy  told  me  so.  But,  0  if  you  had  seen  old  Willy, 
papa,  when  he  opened  his  bit  of  a  window  at  the  end  of  his  cot- 
tage, and  took  us  for  thieves  !  He  did  not  look  the  least  more 
satisfied  when  he  found  it  was  me,  than  if  I  had  been  a  down- 
right thief;  but  the  moment  Jem  spoke,  he  looked  as  if  he 
thought  no  harm  could  come  to  him.  I  wonder  what  all  the 
village  think  of  me  ?" 

"  It  is  not  what  people  think  of  us,  my  boy,  but  what  we 
really  are,  that  we  have  need  to  inquire.  Suppose  you  take  that 
question  as  an  exercise  for  your  own  heart  to-day.  What  am  I  ? 
Answer  it  faithfully  in  writing,  and  put  the  date  of  the  month 
and  year  to  it,  and  let  me  have  it  with  a  seal  on,  to  lock  up  for 
vou  in  my  private  desk  till  a  year  has  passed  away,  if  you  should 
live  to  see  it." 

"  I  will,  papa,  if  you  wish  me ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  a 
poor  account." 

"  Better  to  face  the  truth  at  once ;  then  we  may  hope  to  be- 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  01 

gin  tc)  reflect  its  likeness,"  replied  Mr.  Clifford.  Then,  with  a 
smile  of  assurance,  Herbert  whispered  to  his  sister,  "  The  star 
did  come  in  a  cloud,  and  the  cloud  is  gone  now  !"  and  hastened 
off  to  prepare  for  encountering  his  tutor. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Merton,  that  I  am  not  ready  with  mj 
lessons,"  said  Herbert.  "  I  got  into  trouble,  and  it 's  taken  more 
than  my  best  thoughts  to  find  a  way  out  of  it."  Herbert's  tutor 
saw  at  once  that  it  was  no  excuse  of  idleness  ;  and  placing  con- 
fidence in  his  young  pupil,  such  confidence  as,  if  oftener  used, 
might  yield  its  pleasant  fruit,  he  replied,  "  Perhaps  you  have 
been  learning  a  better  lesson  than  any  I  set  you.  Shall  we  sit 
down  to  your  books  now,  and  see  what  we  can  do  together  ?" 
The  look  of  surprise,  gratitude,  and  pleasure  that  instantly  light- 
ed up  Herbert's  face  was  assurance  enough  to  his  tutor  that  he 
had  not  erred  in  his  confidence  ;  and  that  morning's  study  was 
equally  pleasant  to  teacher  and  pupil. 

At  last  Herbert  was  free  to  set  off  once  more  to  the  aged 
Willy's  broken-down  cottage  ;  a  wreath  of  smoke  was  curling 
up  from  it  to  heaven — ^the  happy  witness  of  his  morning's  effort ; 
he  knocked  Nvith  his  stick  upon  the  door ;  then,  opening  it,  peep- 
ed in.  There  sat  old  Willy,  while,  in  the  open  fireplace  beside 
him,  burned  red  and  hot  the  logs  that  morning  saw  prepared  for 
use  ;  behind  him  a  thick  crimson  curtain  shut  out  the  draught, 
and  shut  in  the  warmth  of  the  fire ;  a  table  was  drawn  close  to 
him,  and  on  it  lay  his  open  Bible. 

"  Well,  Willy,"  said  Herbert,  "  here  I  am,  come  to  see  how 
the  old  logs  burn  !  What  a  capital  fire  they  have  made  !  Did 
you  use  my  chips  ?" 

"  Ye?»,  master,  and  they  were  greatly  needed  to  get  a  heat  up 
under  the  logs  ;  but  T  found  a  sprinkling  of  coals,  and  after  a 
time  I  got  up  such  a  fire  as  I  have  not  had  for  long,  and  the 
othei  big  log  is  drying  at  the  back." 


92  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Herbert  drew  out  a  little  stool  from  tlie  open  chimney,  and 
Bat  down  close  by  the  fire,  in  front  of  old  Willy.  Now  Herbert 
had  by  no  means  forgotten  his  dream,  and  he  looked  round  old 
Willy's  room  with  a  feeling  of  awe.  On  the  further  side  of  the 
room  he  saw  a  low  bedstead,  not  unlike  the  one  he  had  seen  in 
his  dream  :  he  wondered  whether  old  Willy  knew  any  thinr 
about  the  angels ;  he  thought  the  best  way  would  be  to  talk  to 
him  a  little  on  that  subject,  but  he  hardly  knew  how  to  begin, 
till,  remembering  the  open  Bible  which  lay  on  the  table,  he 
said — 

"  If  you  read  the  Bible,  Willy,  I  suppose  you  know  about  the 
angels  ?" 

"  Yes,  master,  I  read  about  them  there,  and  what  they  do  for 
the  like  of  me." 

"  Do  you  think  that  they  really  watch  over  you,  Willy  ?" 

"  Don't  I  know  it,  master  !  for  does  it  not  say  the  very  same 
in  my  Book  ?  And  is  it  not  tKe  like  thoughts  to  that,  that  keep 
me  happy  and  praising  God  at  night  times,  wh^n  the  wind 
blows  my  old  place  about  as  if  it  were  ready  to  come  down  and 
bury  me  !" 

"  Do  you  think  the  angels  will  keep  it  from  falling,  Willy  ?" 

"  No,  I  never  read  the  like  of  that ;  but  I  know  they  are 
watching  over  me  ;  and  I  think  that,  if  it  fell,  they  would  carry 
me,  as  they  did  that  poor  beggar  that  1  read  of,  straight  up  to 
the  blessed  heaven  above." 

"  But  are  you  not  afraid  to  sleep  in  this  old  house  for  fear  it 
should  fall." 

"  No,  master ;  why  should  I  be  afraid  ?  It 's  not  death  I  am 
afraid  of  !  I  say,  why  should  I  be  afraid  ?  It  would  only  be  a 
going  home  ;  and,  somehow,  I  think  about  the  bright  side  ;  and 
for  the  dark  side,  why  should  not  I  be  leaving  that  all  behind — 
for  why  then  should  I  think  about  it?     And  don't  I  know 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  \f9 

He  that  keeps  me  together  soul  and  body  can  keep  llie  place 
that 's  over  my  liead  till  He  takes  me  up  to  a  better  ?  Is  not 
that  just  what  he  spoke  to  poor  men  that  looked  to  him  for 
comfort  as  I  do  ?  '  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled  :  ye  believe 
in  God,  believe  also  in  me.  In  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions :  if  it  were  not  so,  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go  to 
prepare  a  place  for  you.  And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for 
you,  I  will  come  again  and  receive  you  unto  myself;  that  where 
I  am,  there  ye  may  be  also.'  My  blessed  angel  taught  me  those 
words,  before  ever  I  could  read  them  in  my  book  !" 

"  Did  the  angels  teach  you  that  ?"  asked  Herbert,  leaning  for 
ward. 

"  Not  them  that  live  up  above,  master,  but  that  one  that 's  a 
sister  of  yours.  I  always  caM  her  so,  because,  to  ray  thinking, 
she  seemed  sent  right  away  from  the  holy  Heaven  to  teach  me, 
a  poor  old  dark  sinner  as  I  was." 

"  Do  you  know  my  sister  ?"  asked  Herbert. 

"  Why,  I  knew  her  before  I  knew  myself,"  replied  old  Willy, 
with  a  smile. 

"  Now,  Willy,  I  know  you  are  joking,  my  sister  is  not  half  so 
old  as  you." 

"  No,  bless  her  1"  said  old  Willy,  "  she  is  but  an  infant  of  days 
by  the  side  of  an  old  sinner  like  me.  But  I  mean,  that  I  never 
knew  myself,  till  she  taught  me  what  I  was." 

"  How  do  you  mean  that  she  taught  you,  Willy  ?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,  I  was  a  poor  old  ignorant  sinner,  that 
had  lived  all  my  days  only  for  this  world.  Well,  I  used  to  sit 
on  that  settle  by  my  door  for  hours  in  the  smmner-time,  when 
I  had  nothing  to  be  after,  and  she  saw  me  many  a  time  as  she 
went  riding  by  on  her  white  pony.  Well,  one  day  she  stopped 
and  I  saw  her  come  stepping  over  the  stile,  so  I  rose  up  and 
made  my  obedience  to  her,  and  she  said,  *  Sit  down  again,  I  am 


94  MINISTERING    CHILDREN. 

come  to  sit  a  little  while  with  you  on  this  pleasant  seat.'  "Well, 
she  talked  to  me  ;  and  asked  me  if  I  thought  about  Heaven  all 
the  long  hours  I  sat  by  myself  on  that  seat  at  my  door  ;  and  I 
told  her  I  could  not  say  that  I  had  much  understanding  about 
that.  Then  she  asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  about  God's  blessed 
Word,  that  showed  us  the  way  to  Heaven ;  and  I  told  her  I 
could  not  say  that  I  ever  had  any  knowledge  of  that.  Then 
she  said,  would  I  like  to  have  her  read  to  me  out  of  her  Book, 
that  I  might  get  a  knowledge  and  understanding  of  those 
things  ;  so  I  said,  if  she  pleased,  I  should  take  it  a  great  favor. 
Then  she  took  a  little  book  from  her  bag  that  hung  on  her  arm, 
and  she  said,  '  This  is  the  Bible,  God  has  given  it  to  us  to  show 
us  the  way  to  Heaven.'  So  I  bended  my  attention  to  listen ; 
and  she  read  me  about  the  beggar  Lazarus,  and  the  angels  that 
bore  him  to  Heaven.  I  thought  that  was  not  like  the  ways  of 
this  world,  but  I  did  not  say  a  word  ;  so  when  she  had  done, 
she  asked  me  whether  I  could  tell  her  why  it  was  that  the 
angels  above  came  down  to  carry  up  that  poor  beggar,  that  had 
not  so  much  as  a  bed  to  die  in,  to  Heaven  ?  So  I  said,  I  had 
no  understanding  in  such  things ;  then  she  said,  that  the  beg- 
gar loved  the  good  God  who  made  Heaven  and  earth,  and  the 
good  God  loved  that  poor  beggar,  and  so  He  sent  His  angels 
for  him  to  take  him  to  be  with  Him  in  Heaven.  Well,  I  thought 
it  was  wonderful,  and  not  much  like  to  the  ways  of  men,  but 
I  did  not  say  a  word.  Then  she  asked  me  if  I  loved  the  good 
Lord  as  that  poor  beggar  did  ?  So  I  said,  I  did  not  seem  to 
know ;  then  she  said,  if  I  did  not  know,  that  showed  I  did  not 
love  Him,  for  if  I  loved  Him,  I  must  have  a  knowledge  that  I 
did  :  and  she  asked  me  if  I  should  like  to  know  and  love  the 
good  Lord  who  sent  His  angels  for  the  poor  beggar  ?  And  I 
said,  Yes,  for  certain  I  should  if  I  could  come  at  it ;  and  she 
said,  the  poor  beggar  came  at  that  knowledge,  and  therefore  I 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  95 

miglit  if  I  tried  to  gain  it ;  and  she  said  slie  would  come  and 
read  to  me  about  it  from  her  Book.  Well,  I  sat  and  thought 
on  that  poor  beggar — carried  right  away  up  to  Heaven  by  the 
angels  as  soon  as  the  breath  was  out  of  his  poor  body.  J 
thouo-ht,  if  I  could  be  done  for  as  he  was,  that  would  seem 
wonderful  comfort  to  think  upon.  And  I  sat  and  watched  for 
her  to  come  again,  for  I  saw  she  had  got  it  all,  and  I  seemed  to 
think  she  would  bring  it  to  me,  though  I  could  not  tell  how. 
Well,  she  came  again,  just  as  she  did  before,  many  times ;  I 
can't  mind  the  words  she  read  to  me  now,  only  those  fii-st,  but 
somehow  it  all  seemed  as  if  it  came  to  me." 

"  What  came  to  you  ?"  asked  Herbert. 

"  Why,  the  understanding  to  know  it  all !  I  seemed  to  get 
light  in  me  to  see  it — I  got  a  sight  of  what  a  dark,  bad  life  I 
had  led,  without  a  bit  of  love  in  my  evil  heart  for  the  good 
Lord,  who  died  for  me :  and  then  I  saw  Him  still  waiting  for 
me,  still  calling  to  me,  a  poor  lost  sinner,  to  come  to  Him  :  it 
broke  my  old  heart  quite  up,  but  then  I  got  comfort — looking 
up  to  Him.  Well,  then,  she  said  to  me,  '  Willy,  God  gave 
the  Bible  for  you  to  look  into  as  well  as  for  me  ;  would  you  not 
like  to  have  one,  and  try  to  read  it  V  I  have  clean  lost  all  my 
learning,  said  I.  'But,  Willy,'  said  she,  *I  think  it  would 
come  back  again ;  suppose  we  try  V  So  the  very  next  time 
she  came  carrying  this  blessed  Book  in  her  own  hands ;  and 
the  first  word  she  made  me  read  was  our  Saviour's  name, 
Jesus.  'There,  Willy,'  said  she,  'now  you  can  read  the 
name  of  your  Saviour — who  loved  you,  and  died  for  you,  and 
sent  me  to  teach  you  !  Now  see  how  many  places  in  the  New 
Testament  you  can  find  that  name  in,  against  I  come  again.' 
How  I  did  study,  to  be  sure,  and  without  a  bit  of  spectacles, 
for  my  eyes  are  wonderful !  She  left  me  many  bits  of  marks, 
and  I  tucked  them  in  where  I  found  that  name  :  ^nd  I  looked, 


96  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

till  to  be  sure  I  seemed  to  have  nothing  day  or  night  in  my 
mind  but  that  name  Jesus  !  And  when  she  came  again,  how 
pleased  she  was  to  be  sure  !  Then  she  said,  '  Now,  Willy,  you 
have  learned  your  Saviour's  blessed  name,  now  you  shall  look 
after  the  Holy  name  of  God,  that  is  a  terrible  name,  Willy, 
for  those  who  do  not  love  the  name  of  Jesus,  but  I  hope  you 
do,  so  you  don't  need  to  be  afraid  to  look  upon  the  Holy  name 
of  God  V  Well,  I  thought  it  seemed  a  serious  thing  as  she 
spoke  it,  but  I  kept  hold  of  that  first  name  Jesus  in  ray  mind, 
when  I  looked  after  the  other,  and  to  be  sure  I  seemed  to  find 
God  every  where  !  And  so  I  always  kept  those  two  together, 
and  so  I  do  now,  for  when  I  get  upon  that  great  name  of  God, 
then  I  think  of  Jesus,  and  it  lifts  me  on.  And,  after  a  time, 
my  learning  did  seem  to  come  to  me  again,  and  now  there  ia 
scarce  a  part  of  the  Book  but  what  I  can  get  comfort  out  of — 
thanks  be  to  God  that  sent  her  to  teach  me  to  know  Him  thai 
loved  me,  and  gave  Himself  for  me  !" 

Herbert  had  listened  with  breathless  attention,  for  he  loved 
his  sister  with  all  the  affection  of  his  heart,  and  now  he  replied, 
"  You  have  not  seen  my  sister,  Willy,  for  some  weeks  now  ;  she 
has  been  ill." 

"  No,  master,  not  since  the  beginning  of  January  ;  she  came 
here  then,  and  the  groom  carried  a  big  bundle,  and  if  it  was 
not  all  for  me  !  just  this  fine  curtain  as  you  see  it  hung  across 
here ;  and  there  was  that  little  curtain  for  the  window,  instead 
of  the  old  thing  that  was  rotted  to  pieces  there  before ;  and 
that  one  she  brought — ^it  is  wonderful  the  wind  and  rain  it 
keeps  out,  from  the  thickness  of  it !  that  was  the  last  time  I  saw 
her  come  in  :  but,  to  my  thinking,  she  is  never  out  of  my  sight, 
for  I  seem  to  see  her  in  that  light  that  shows  me  my  Saviour^ 
for  she  don't  seem  of  this  world,  to  my  thinking." 

"  Well,  good-by,  Willy,"  said  Herbert,  gravely,  "  it  won't  be 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  97 

long  before  I  am  near  you  again  !"  and  he  shook  hands  "vvith 
the  old  man,  and  hastened  home.  He  was  soon  in  his  sister's 
Doudoir ;  she  was  lying  on  her  sofa,  and  Herbert  laid  his  head 
upon  her  shoulder,  and  the  pent-up  feelings  of  his  heart  broke 
forth  in  tears. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  darling  Herbert  ?  what  has  hap- 
pened ?  where  have  you  been  ?  You  must  not  cry  so — tell  me 
all  about  it." 

"  0,  Mary,  why  are  you  so  long  ill  ?  When  will  you  b«» 
well  aficain  ?" 

"  When  the  spring-time  comes,  then  I  shall  be  well  again, 
and  we  will  walk  and  ride  again  together  as  we  used  to  do." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  will  be  quite  well  then  ?"  asked  Herbert. 

"  We  can  never  be  quite  sure  about  any  thing  upon  earth  ; 
but  I  do  not  feel  any  doubt  about  it,  and  the  doctor  thinks  so, 
too." 

"  0  !  then  I  shall  be  happy  again  !"  said  Herbert ;  "  and  shall 
we  go  and  see  old  Willy  together  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  we  will  do  any  thing  you  like.  Should  you  like 
to  go  and  see  him  vnth  me  1" 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  it  very  much.  I  am  just  come  aw^ay 
from  him." 

"  And  had  he  a  warm  fire  with  the  logs  which  you  and  Jem 
prepared  ?"  asked  his  sister. 

"  Yes,  that  he  had ;  and  he  looked  so  comfortable !  Not 
the  least  cold,  and  he  said  my  chips  were  the  greatest  use  in 
making  the  old  logs  burn ;  and  to-morrow  morning  I  mean 
to  go  all  alone  ;  I  know,  if  I  try,  I  can  do  it  with  old  Willy's 
hatchet ;  and  then  I  shall  feel  of  some  use  in  the  world.  Only 
think,  if  I  could  make  old  Willy's  fire  with  logs  I  had  chopped 
w  it  1" 
**Yes,  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  make  his  fire;  but  I 

5 


MINIS  TERI  KG     CHILDREN 


hope  there  will  soon  be  other  ways  to  do  that  without  youi 
chopping  wood,  because  I  don't  think  you  are  strong  enough 
for  that,  and  I  don't  think  papa  thought  of  your  doing  that." 

"  0,  Mary,  \ou  don't  know  what  nice  work  it  is  !  If  you  could 
but  have  seen  how  many  chips  I  got  off  the  side  of  that  old 
tree,  where  Jem  had  chopped  the  logs,  you  would  have  known 
I  could  do  it !  I  will  not  hurt  myself,  indeed  ;  it  does  every  bit 
as  well  as  skating,  and  then  it  makes  old  Willy's  fire  !" 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  hurt  yourself,  I  am  afraid  it  would  make 
me  ill." 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,  indeed,  Mary.  I  will  think  of  you 
— and  then  I  am  sure  to  take  care.  You  see  Jem  taught  me 
just  how  to  do  it,  and  old  Willy's  hatchet  is  very  light." 

That  evening,  when  Herbert  had  prepared  his  lessons  for  his 
tutor,  he  remembered  the  question  his  father  had  given  him  to 
answer,  and,  sitting  down  again  to  his  desk,  he  took  a  sheet 
of  paper  and  wrote  at  the  top — 

"  Question.     What  am  I  ? 

"  Ansiver.     An  Englishman — a  gentleman." 

But  then  Herbert  paused,  and  thought  to  himself,  "  That  will 
do  so  far,  but  what  next  ?  Why,  I  may  as  well  say  I  have  two 
ponies  and  a  groom  :  no,  that  will  not  do,  the  question  is  not 
what  I  HAVE,  but  what  I  am.  Well,  then,  let  me  see,  what  else 
am  I  ?  I  am  sure  I  don't  knew.  I  could  say  I  am  a  huntsman, 
but  that  would  not  look  well  alone.  I  can  not  say  I  am  any 
thing  in  the  way  of  study  ;  nor  yet  in  the  way  of  nature — ^for 
I  am  not  a  naturalist,  nor  a  botanist,  nor  a  gardener.  Let 
me  see — what  should  a  gentleman  be  1  Why,  he  should  be 
polite,  but  papa  says  I  am  too  forgetful  of  other  people's  com- 
fort to  be  polite,  though  I  try  at  it  sometimes.  Am  I  generous  ? 
I  am  afraid  not ;  because  my  the  ughts,  and  my  time,  and  money, 
have  all  been  spent  on  myself.     0  dear,  what  am  I  ?    If  I  am 


MINISTERING     CHILDREKT.  99 

not  polite,  and  not  generous,  perhaps  I  am  not  a  gentleman  yet, 
but  only  a  boy  ?  I  will  write  that :  but  then,  what  am  I  besides  ? 
I  am  sure  I  don't  know  ;  I  am  just  nothing — I  have  been  no  use 
to  any  one,  and  no  comfort  to  any  body !  I  will  write  that 
down ;  but  no,  that  is  only  what  I  am  not  ;  and  papa  said  I 
was  to  write  what  I  am.  Well,  then,  I  see  it  is  no  use  looking 
on  the  bright  side,  I  can  not  find  myself  there,  so  I  may  as  well 
come  to  the  dark  side  at  once,  I  shall  have  no  diflSculty  then  !" 
So  Herbert  took  a  fresh  sheet. 

"  Question.     What  am  I  ? 

"  Answer.     An  English  boy. 

"  Passionate,  selfish,  sinful.  * 

"  I  have  forsaken  the  Guide  of  my  youth,  uiid  forgotten  the 
Word  of  God  :  but  I  hope  I  have  found  the  Heavenly  Counsel- 
or— and  that  he  will  lead  me  in  a  better  way. 

"  Herbert  Clifford." 

Herbert  folded  it  up,  and  took  it  to  his  father's  study ;  he 
found  his  father  there,  and  said,  "  I  don't  want  tp  disturb  you, 
papa,  I  have  only  brought  you  what  you  wished — it's  dreadful, 
but  it's  true !  You  can  read  it,  papa,  for  you  know  it  all."  His 
father  took  the  paper,  and  looked  upon  it ;  then,  taking  the  con- 
science-stricken child  to  his  embrace,  said,  "  My  precious  boy  ! 
you  have  found  the  Truth — or,  rather,  the  Truth  has  found  you  ; 
'  take  fast  hold  of  her,  let  her  not  go,  keep  her,  for  she  is  thy  life* 
— then  shall  your  path  be  *  as  the  shining  light,  that  shineth 
more  and  more  unto  the  perfect  day  !'  " 

Again  that  night  Herbert  turned  to  the  Book  that  his  heart, 
and  not  his  head  alone,  remembered  now :  and  from  the 
second  chapter  of  St.  James,  he  read,  "  Hearken,  my  beloved 
brethren,  hath  not  God  chosen  the  poor  of  this  world,  rich  in 
feith,  and  heirs  of  the  kingdom   which  He  hath  promised  to 


100  MINISTERING     CHILDREN 

them  ^hat  love  Him  ?"  Could  he  help  thinking  of  old  Willy  1 
— not  now  as  a  poor  helpless  old  man,  shivering  with  cold,  but 
as  rich  in  faith — had  not  Herbert  found  him  to  be  so  ?  and  an 
heir  to  a  kingdom — eternal  in  the  heavens — and,  thinking  on 
these  things,  Herbert  fell  asleep  on  his  pillow,  while  a  radiant 
angel,  like  the  one  which  watched  over  old  Willy,  kept  guard 
through  the  night  over  the  sleeping  boy  ;  and  bright  dreams  of 
warm  hearths,  and  glad  faces,  and  open  Bibles,  and  love  around 
him  every  where,  made  sweet  the  slumbers  of  the  happy  child. 


CHAPTER    Tin. 

*•  The  rich  and  poor  meet  together :  the  Lord  is  the  Maker  of  them  •D."— Pwwr- 
ERBS  xxil.  2. 

TTERBERT  woke ;  he  looked  at  his  watch — ^it  was  half-past 
-'"'-  five  o'clock ;  so,  rising  with  the  vigor  of  a  resolved  will, 
he  set  forth  again  in  the  darkness,  his  thoughts  busy  with  his 
work,  and  how  he  should  manage  it  all  without  Jem ;  till,  silent 
and  dim  in  the  distance,  he  saw  the  cottage  where  old  Willy- 
dwelt.  He  quickened  his  steps,  and,  as  he  drew  near,  he  heard 
the  sound  of  a  heavy  stroke ;  he  listened,  and  heard  it  again, 
and  then  an  encouraging  voice  sajring,  "  Well,  there,  to  be  sure, 
'tis  as  well  to  give  in,  when  it  m^ist  come  to  that  in  the  end  !" 
and  the  sound  of  a  log  falling,  as  if  thrown  up,  fell  on  Herbert's 
ear.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  tone  or  words  of  the  speaker. 
"  It  is  Jem,  I  declare !"  said  Herbert  to  himself,  as,  without  wait- 
ing to  reach  the  stile,  he  scrambled  over  the  hedge. 

"  Why,  Jem !  I  meant  to  have  cut  you  out  this  morning,  and 
shown  what  I  could  make  of  the  old  log  by  myself." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  thought  as  much  ;  but  there  's  none  the  worse 
for  it  as  it  is,  and  may  be  there 's  some  will  be  the  better  ;  for 
'tis  as  knotted  an  old  tree  as  ever  was,  and  stands  out  against  a 
stroke  wonderful !" 

"  Why,  you  have  not  cut  away  these  three  logs  this  morning, 
Jem,  have  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  I  got  a  stroke  or  two  last  evening  in  ray  way  homo. 


102  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

for  this  time  of  the  year  the  sun  lingers  a-bed  till  I  often  wish  he 
was  up  a  bit  earlier ;  but  I  suppose  he  comes  right  to  his  time, 
for  all  that — for  our  Mercy  is  often  singing  before  'tis  light — 

** '  My  God,  who  makes  the  sun  to  know 
His  proper  hour  to  rise.' " 

"Yes,"  replied  Herbert ;  and  he  tried  to  remember  a  little  as* 
tronomy,  to  establish  himself  in  Jem's  simple  belief  of  the  sun 
coming  right  to  its  time ;  but  it  would  not  just  then  occur  to 
his  mind,  so  he  gave  all  his  thoughts  to  the  log. 

"  Why,  Jem,  I  declare  you  have  split  the  tree  half  its  length !" 

"  Yes,  sir,  thcU  's  what  I  had  in  my  mind — to  split  it  if  I 
could,  and  then  we  might  hoist  it  up,  for  it  gets  the  mastery 
down  here  in  the  mud,  by  being  a  bit  unsteady  ;  but  I  found  I 
could  not  get  it  to  halve  as  it  was,  so  I  am  set  to  work  again 
till  it  thinks  better  of  it." 

When  three  more  logs  were  off  the  split  was  effected,  a  large- 
sized  piece  was  separated,  which  Jem  raised  up  to  Herbert  from 
below,  and  then  fastened  two  cords  he  had  brought  from  the 
farm,  one  at  each  end  of  the  log,  and  by  dint  of  pulling,  and  groan- 
ing, and  pleasant  speaking,  the  remainder  was  drawn  up  sideways 
and  lodged  on  the  solid  ground.  Herbert  sprang  upcn  the  con- 
quered tree,  and,  with  hat  in  hand,  was  again  preparing  for  a 
loud  "  Hurra !"  when  he  suddenly  remembered  old  Willy  fast 
asleep,  and,  springing  down,  seized  up  Jem's  hatchet,  to  carry  on 
a  practical  warfr.re,  instead  of  his  suspended  note  of  triumph. 
Herbert  could  now  plant  his  foot  firmly  on  the  tree ;  the  sun  hav- 
ing risen,  its  light  fell  full  upon  his  work,  unshaded  by  tne  sides 
of  the  dark  ditcl ,  and  with  old  Willy's  light  hatchet,  and  Jem 
directing,  cautioning,  encouraging,  and  praising  him  by  turns,  he 
Bucceeded  at  last,  and  severed  a  considerable  log  from  the  old 
Btem.     His  trimi.ph  and  independence  were  now  at  the  hight 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  103 

and  Jem  was  dispatcbed  to  his  work  with  a  warm  shake  of  his 
rough  honest  hand,  for  the  help  he  had  given  him. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Jem,  "  the  pleasure  is  none  the  less  to  give 
than  to  receive,  as  the  sa3ring  is  ;"  and  then  he  packed  himself 
up  with  hatchet  and  bill-hook,  and,  with  his  bow  of  respectful 
reverence  to  the  joung  Squire — not  less  esteemed  by  honest  Jem 
because  he  had  turned  in  confidence  to  ask  his  aid — he  again 
departed  to  his  day's  work.  Another  log  was  separated,  and 
Herbert  pulled  out  his  watch,  to  see  if  he  might  venture  on  a 
third,  when  he  suddenly  remembered  the  useful  chips ;  so,  ex- 
changing the  hatchet  for  the  bill -hook,  he  set  to  work  in  a  dif- 
ferent fashion,  till  a  supply  of  chips  lay  scattered  around  him. 
Never  did  woodman  with  more  thankful  heart  survey  his  work 
than  the  youthful  Herbert,  that  cold  winter  morning ;  and  who 
shall  tell  the  heartfelt  satisfaction  with  which  he  piled  up  logs 
and  chips  at  old  Willy's  still  closed  door — while  mingling  thoughts 
of  the  poor  old^man,  so  rich  in  faith,  an  heir  of  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  watched  over  by  angels,  taught  by  his  sister,  and  now 
warmed  by  his  hand,  glowed  in  Herbert's  young  heart  and 
beamed  in  his  eye  !  With  what  care  did  he  arrange  and  re-ar- 
range the  pile,  that  it  might  look  to  the  best  effect  when  ol 
Willy  opened  his  door.  And  then,  putting  hatchet  and  bill 
hook  safely  away  in  the  shed,  he  made  haste  to  leave  old  Willy 
alone  to  his  surpiise ;  and,  turning  round  to  take  one  more  look, 
he  got  over  the  stile  to  Sb^  forth  on  his  way  home. 

"  0,  papa,  I  really  feel  a  man  at  last !  Only  think  !  I  have 
chopped  off  two  logs,  and  one  alone  by  myself,  and  now  I  quite 
understand  it ;  I  know  how  it  can  be  done,  and  how  it  can  not. 
1  wonder  whether  you  know  all  about  the  grain  of  the  wood, 
papa,  and  getting  the  hatchet  right  for  a  split,  and  keeping  c.Var 
of  the  tenible  old  knots  ?'' 

"  I  know  a  little  abou'.  it  in  theory,  my  boy,  but  not,  like  you, 


104  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

in  practice.  But  I  begin  to  feel  a  ricli  man,  seeing  I  have  a  soii 
who  can  do  one  useful  thing  without  his  purse  !  And  now,  if 
we  shoidd  have  to  go  to  the  backwoods  of  America,  you  can 
build  us  all  a  log-house." 

"  I  do  believe  I  could,  with  Jem  to  help  ;  he  is  such  a  capital 
fellow  !     I  wish  he  worked  for  you,  papa." 

"  We  must  not  covet  our  neighbor's  servant ;  and  you  see  Jem 
can  be  of  no  great  use  to  us  without  being  in  our  employ  :  if  he 
had  been  my  man  he  would  not  have  been  your  helper  in  this 
difficulty.  I  only  think  it  is  a  pity  that  Jem  can  not  come  and 
teach  you  Latin  and  Greek ;  then  you  might  yet  hope  to  take  a 
o^ood  deo^ree  at  colleore,  which  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Merton  does  not 
consider  there  is  likely  to  be  much  hope  of  at  present." 

"  0,  papa,  Jem  would  be  a  great  deal  worse  at  Latin  and 
Greek  than  I  am  !  and  then,  you  see,  papa,  I  can  not  get  the 
same  spirit  into  my  lessons,  because  I  can  not  see  why  we 
should  learn  things  that  we  don't  the  least  care  about,  and  that 
are  of  no  use  to  any  one,  and  that  only  to  take  up  a  great  deal 
of  pleasant  time  !" 

"  And  suppose  the  young  tree  was  to  say  that  it  could  not 
see  the  use  of  the  wind  that  blew  it  from  side  to  side,  fatiguing 
it  every  rough  day ;  nor  of  the  rain  that  drenched  its  leaves, 
and  yet  still  battered  down  ;  nor  of  the  sun  that  chose  out  the 
hottest  time  to  come  scorching  upon  it. — I  suppose  you  could 
s^et  the  young  tree  right  on  that  subject  and  could  assure  it  that 
tliough  it  might  find  the  boisterous  wind,  and  the  battering 
rain,  and  the  scorching  sun,  all  a  little  inconvenient  at  times, 
yet  that  it  would  prove  very  unfit  for  its  place  in  the  forest  or 
the  grove  if  it  got  rid  of  those  troublesome  influences — what  do 
you  say  to  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  papa,  of  course  every  one  knows  what  a  tree  wants." 

**  And  so,  my  boy,  every  one  who  watches  over  you  may 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  106 

know  wliat  you  want,  and  yet  you  may  be  at  present  unable  to 
judge.  You  must  take  it  on  trust  a  little  while  ;  and  rest  as- 
sured that  if  your  powers  of  mind  are  unexercised,  and  your 
thoughts  uncultivated  by  the  study  of  the  lives  and  writings  of 
other  men,  you  would  never  be  fitted  to  fill  your  Heaven-ap- 
pointed position  in  life.  You  see  the  use  now  of  making  a  fire 
for  old  Willy ;  but  by  and  by  you  will,  I  trust,  see  still  greater 
use  in  being  able  to  acquire  an  influence  over  the  minds  of  those 
who  will  meet  you  in  your  own  station  in  life,  and  by  this  means 
you  may,  through  your  influence  over  the  men  of  your  own 
rank,  make  many  an  old  Willy  warm  and  prosperous,  who 
might  otherwise  have  been  suftering  from  neglect  and  indifier- 
ence :  but  this  you  can  never  hope  to  do  if  you  fail  to  culti- 
vate those  powers  of  your  heart,  or  mind,  or  head,  which  God 
has  bestowed  on  you,  as  needful  to  the  right  fulfilment  of  the 
duties  of  the  station  in  which  He  has  placed  you." 

"  Well,  papa,  I  don't  think  that  I  shall  do  worse  at  my  lessons 
for  making  up  old  Willy's  fire ;  lam  sure  I  did  better  yesterday." 

"  No,  my  boy,  the  poor  man's  blessing  is  a  drop  of  Heavenly 
dew  descending  to  invigorate  the  heart,  and  mind,  and  head,  of 
him  on  whom  it  falls.  I  have  not  the  least  expectation  of  hear- 
ing that  old  Willy's  bright  fire  leaves  your  understanding  burning 
dimmer  than  before.  So  long  as  you  observe  your  tutor's  rules 
and  requirements,  you  may  find  as  much  pleasure  as  you  can  in 
ministering  to  the  old  man's  comfort ;  and  may  the  poor  man's 
God  make  your  work  and  service  of  love  acceptable  to  himself." 

This  conversation  passed  during  the  cheerful  morning  meal ; 
and  after  breakfast  Herbert  lingered  with  his  sister  as  he  often 
did  a  little  while,  and  she  said,  "  Is  this  useful  woodcutting  for 
old  Willy  the  only  thing  you  have  learned  in  these  last  few 
.iays  to  value  the  knowledge  of?" 

"  No,  Mary,  not  the  only  thing.     I  know  what  you  mean,  an<? 


106  MINISTERING    CHILDREN, 

it  is  a  better  knowledge  than  wood-cutting — you  mean  that  1  have 
learnt  that  God  hears  and  answers  prayer  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  Herbert,  and  you  have  learned  it  not  in  word  only, 
but  in  deed  and  in  truth ;  as  only  those  can  learn  it  who  make 
trial  of  it,  as  you  have  done,  in  the  way  the  Bible  teaches." 

"I  hope,  Mary,  whatever  I  forget,  I  may  remember  that 
knowledge,  for  it  is  wonderful  to  think  of  the  comfort  that  has 
come  out  of  my  trouble !  and  I  feel  now  as  if  I  knew  to  whon 
to  go  whatever  (difficulty  I  might  be  in." 

"  That  blessed  confidence,  dear  Herbert,  nothing  but  our  own 
experience  can  teach  us  ;  how  happy  for  you  to  have  learned  it 
so  early !" 

After  that  day's  lessons,  Herbert  rode  with  his  father ;  they 
talked  of  pleasant  things,  and  Herbert  felt  as  if  he  had  been 
more  of  a  companion  to  his  father  in  his  ride  than  he  had  ever 
been  before.  The  evening  was  given  to  preparation  for  hi«  tu- 
tor, and  the  next  morning  he  was  oflf  again  between  six  and 
seven  for  old  Willy's.  "  I  should  not  wonder  if  I  were  to  find 
Jem  there  again  !"  thought  Herbert,  as  he  pursued  his  way — 
and  truly  enough  there  stood  the  faithful  Jem,  hewing  and 
hacking  the  remnant  of  the  old  tree ;  while  several  logs  lay 
round  it,  the  fruit  of  the  past  evening's  labor — Jem  seeming  to 
consider  that  Herbert  had  the  exclusive  right  to  bear  oflf  in  per- 
son to  the  cottage  every  portion  of  the  log  that  had  become  so 
great  an  object  of  interest  to  him.  Herbert  insisted  on  his  own 
acquired  capabilities,  and  Jem  was  sent  off"  to  his  hedging  and 
ditching.  Meanwhile,  as  soon  as  daylight  dawned,  old  Willy 
rose,  determined  not  to  let  the  young  Squire  be  oflf  again  with- 
out an  old  man's  thanks :  and  he  stood  by,  beneath  the  risen 
sun,  when  Herbert  clave  in  twain  the  last  fragment  of  the  hard 
old  tree  ;  and  now  Herbert  might  safely  shout,  so  standing  with 
one  foot  on  each  of  the  last  severed  logs,  he  gave  three  loud 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  10^ 

"  hupralis  !"  and  then,  with  old  Willy's  smiling  help,  piled  up 
the  piecious  store  of  wood  within  the  little  shed,  and  so  pursued 
his  homeward  way  beneath  the  old  man's  blessing. 

As  Herbert  walked  home,  he  felt  that  great  things  had  been 
done — the  logs  all  prepared  for  use,  and  yet  old  Willy  had  not 
struck  another  stroke,  nor  lost  another  breath  upon  them.  Jem 
had  become  his  friend  ;  and  that  because  he  had  asked  and  re- 
ceived the  kindness  of  the  shepherd-lad ;  for  so  it  was,  the  way 
in  which  Herbert  had  turned  to  Jem  had  won  the  heart  of  the 
widow's  son,  and  he  had  said  in  his  cottage-home,  "  There  is  not 
a  thing  I  would  not  be  after  doing  for  my  young  master  at  the 
Hall  there,  if  I  knew  that  he  wanted  it."  Jem  then  had  become 
his  friend ;  and  who  that  knows  the  value  of  the  poor  man's 
love,  but  would  have  rejoiced  in  this  !  Then  also  Herbert  felt 
as  if  his  parents  had  never  seemed  so  well  pleased  with  him  ; 
his  sister  so  happy,  or  his  tutor  so  kind.  Well  might  his  step 
be  swift,  and  his  heart  light.  How  many  stars  might  he  count 
now,  where  all  was  once  so  dark  before  him  ! 

That  morning,  as  he  lingered  again  with  his  sister,  he  said,  "I 
have  such  a  capital  plan  in  my  head  !  Do  you  not  know  how 
often  papa  has  wished  I  could  be  down  stairs  of  an  evening  ? 
Well,  now  I  have  no  more  wood-chopping  to  do  before  break- 
fast, I  don't  mean  to  give  up  getting  up  early ;  I  mean  still  to 
get  up,  and  do  my  lessons  before  breakfast-time,  and  then  I  can 
be  down  a  great  part  of  the  evening.  Is  not  that  a  capital 
plan  r 

"  Yes,  indeed  it  is  ;  only  you  won't  let  this  early  study  rob 
you  of  the  time  you  want  to  seek  a  Heavenly  blessing  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  I  should  be  afraid  nothing  would  go  right,  if  I 
could  neglect  that.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  mean  to  do,  Mary  : 
T  mean  to  learn  the  Epistle  of  St.  James  all  through ;  three 
verses  every  morning ;  it  will  be  the  only  lesson  I  shall  not  have 


108  MINISTERING     CHILDREN 

to  give  an  account  of  to  any  one  ;  I  shall  learn  it  alone  with 
God  and  myself !" 

Herbert  kept  liis  resolution ;  he  was  up  morning  by  morn- 
ing to  his  lessons,  and  by  this  means  secured  the  happy  even- 
ings with  his  parents  and  his  sister.  He  kept  watch  over  old 
AVilly,  and,  as  the  days  went  on,  he  began  to  think  what  next 
must  be  done  to  keep  up  the  fire  on  old  Willy's  hearth  ?  One 
tiling  alone  was  certain,  and  that  was,  that  he  could  not  let 
old  Willy  be  cold,  though  no  log  now  lay  in  the  ditch.  AH 
his  thoughts  were  unsuccessful ;  he  could  devise  no  plan.  But 
those  who,  like  Herbert,  think  upon  the  wants  of  others  and 
pray  for  their  relief,  are  sure  to  find  there  is  a  Hand  unseen 
working  for  those  on  whom  they  think  and  for  whom  they  pray. 
Herbert  seemed  to  himself  to  get  no  nearer  to  any  further  aid 
for  old  Willy :  but  sometimes  that  which  we  think  far  oft'  is 
close  before  us  ;  and  our  next  step  shows  it  plain.  Old  Willy's 
fire-wood  was  getting  low,  and  Herbert  knew  not  what  to  do : 
sometimes  he  thought  that  his  mother  or  his  sister,  who  knew 
he  had  no  money,  might  some  day  surprise  him  by  supplying 
old  Willy's  want ;  but  Herbert's  father  had  secretly  requested 
that  they  would  not  do  so  ;  he  wished  to  see  Herbert  make  his 
own  way  alone — and  though  he  was  quite  ready  now  to  aid 
him,  if  really  necessary — he  did  not  wish  to  do  so  until  he  found 
that  it  was  necessary.  Herbert  said  nothing,  but  he  became 
more  silent  and  thoughtful  •  care  for  the  poor  and  needy  was 
pressing  on  his  heart.  O  happy  they  who  bear  the  burden  of 
the  wants  of  others,  before  they  know  the  weight  of  personal 
calamity  themselves !  Jem  was  keeping  his  sheep  again ;  it 
was  not  to  Jem  that  Herbert  must  now  look :  and  oiice  more 
things  began  to  seem  dark,  and  Herbert  felt  his  own  comfort 
Wfts  lound  uf  with  the  comfort  of  tha<^  feeble  old  man,  who  had 


MINISTERIXG     CHILDREN.  109 

already  been  warmed  by  the  labor  of  his  hands ;  yet  still  he 
knew  not  what  to  do. 

Wliile  in  this  difficulty,  as  Herbert  was  coming  from  the 
stables  one  morning,  he  was  met  by  the  gamekeeper's  eldest 
boy — a  child  about  his  own  age — who,  coming  up  to  him,  said, 
"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Herbert,  we  have  gathered  a  heap  of  sticks 
out  of  the  park ;  father  said  he  thought  you  might  be  wishing 
for  dry  wood,  and  that  he  might  as  well  have  it  ready  as  not." 

"  What  a  capital  thought  1"  exclaimed  Herbert,  "it's  the  very 
thing !  but  how  came  you  to  know  I  wanted  wood  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  father  saw  you  riving  up  old  Willy  Green's  log 
before  it  was  light,  and  he  said  he  never  felt  so  ashamed  in  his 
life — to  have  all  us  boys  abed,  and  you  working  like  that.  So 
we  were  all  up  the  next  morning ;  father  called  us  before  it  was 
hght,  and  he  said  you  were  off  for  all  that !  so  we  scrambled 
up  the  Park  in  the  dark,  and  rare  good  fun  we  had,  and  we  got 
such  a  heap  before  school !  and  the  next  morning  we  were  up 
and  out  before  you  passed  by — for  father  watched  ;  so  then  we 
thought  that  was  something !  And  I  asked  father  if  I  might 
not  tell  you  what  we  were  after ;  and  he  said,  not  till  we  had 
something  to  show :  but  if  you  will  please  to  come  and  see, 
there's  something  to  speak  for  us  now — father  said  I  might 
ask."  This  overflow  of  cheerful  words  was  poured  out  as  the 
poor  boy  by  the  side  of  the  rich  hastened  back  to  look  at  the 
gathered  wood :  quick-footed  they  were — those  happy  traffick- 
ers in  the  blessed  merchandise  of  purest  charity !  And  now 
they  reached  the  gamekeeper's  cottage,  they  hastened  round  it 
to  the  little  yard  behind  ;  there  rose  the  piled-up  stack  of  wood 
which  the  fiiendly  winds  had  strewed  all  ready  for  those  youth- 
ful gleaners'  hands — branches  large  and  small,  branches  old  and 
sere — piled  up  in  a  stack  as  high  as  Herbert  from  the  ground. 
And  the^'e  beside  it  stood  the  gamekeeper's  two  younger  boys. 


110  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Jouathan  and  Benjamin;  and  there  stood  the  mother  with  hej 
infant  in  her  arms,  cunous  to  see  the  young  Squire's  reception 
of  so  new  and  uncommon  a  gift ;  and  there  stood  the  tall  game- 
keeper with  one  hand  upon  the  stack  he  had  stooped  to  help 
his  children  to  rear,  with  a  smile  upon  his  pleasant  face  in  which 
many  a  feeling  mingled — the  consciousness  of  effort  for  the 
needy,  of  labor  whose  only  recompense  was  love,  and  not  the 
least,  perhaps,  a  sense,  a  welcome  sense,  of  one  work  upon  earth, 
and  that  the  noblest,  in  which  his  own  young  boys  stood  side  by 
side  with  their  young  master. 

"  Well,  this  is  capital,"  said  Herbert,  "  capital,  I  declare  !  you 
good  little  fellows  !  that  was  being  of  some  use  in  the  world." 
And  the  boys  looked  on  in  silence,  with  faces  of  delight — ad- 
mitted in  that  moment  to  a  partnership  of  heartfelt  interest  for 
the  poor  and  needy. 

"  It  was  a  capital  thought,  Linton,"  said  Herbert,  now  address- 
ing himself  to  the  gamekeeper.  "  I  was  terribly  done  up  how  to 
get  firewood  for  old  "Willy  just  now,  and  never  thought  of  the 
dead  branches  about,  and  if  I  had,  I  should  have  been  a  month 
getting  up  such  a  stack  as  this  ;  but  now  the  question  is,  how  to 
get  it  to  the  cottage  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  gamekeeper,  "  that 's  soon  settled.  I  can 
put  the  horse  in  the  light  cart  in  a  minute,  and  we  can  soon 
have  it  there." 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  would,  Linton,  the  sooner  the  better.  And 
Jonathan,  you  must  run  to  the  stables,  and  say  I  am  not  going 
to  ride  this  morning."  And  then  Herbert,  and  gamekeeper,  and 
children,  and  the  mother  with  her  infant  on  one  arm,  all  laid  in 
and  threw  in  the  gathered  branches,  till  not  a  useable  twig  re- 
mained behind. 

"  There  Linton,  thank  you,  that  will  do,  we  can  manage  the 
test.     Now,  Richard  and  Jonathan,  in  with  you,  and  let  us  havo 


p.  110. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  Ill 

Kttle  Benjamin,  too — he  can  hold  the  horse;"  so  Benjamin  waH 
lifted  in,  and  then  the  gamekeeper  ran  to  open  the  gate,  and  he 
looked  after  the  light  cart  from  the  gateway,  and  his  wife  from 
the  cottage  door,  the  children  hidden  by  the  piled-up  wood  be- 
hind them,  associated  in  one  work  with  the  young  Squire — and 
that  the  work  of  love  and  mercy. 

Old  Willy  was  sitting  with  his  cottage  door  wide  open,  for  the 
day  was  bright,  and,  sheltered  by  his  fireside,  he  liked  to  look 
out  on  the  pleasant  face  of  nature,  while  the  sun  did  gleam  a 
little  after  the  long  cold  winter.  Up  drove  the  light  cart.  Her- 
bert jumped  out ;  and,  while  the  boys  were  getting  out,  he  hastily 
took  down  the  movable  stile,  and  running  up  the  straight  garden- 
path,  exclaimed,  "  Here  is  no  end  of  wood  coming  for  you,  Wil- 
ly !  Linton's  boys  have  p'^ked  it  up  in  the  Park;  we  will  put 
it  all  in  the  shed."  And  then  he  ran  back  to  the  cart ;  the  boys 
had  already  tilted  it,  shooting  the  wood  into  the  road,  where  it 
lay  in  large  scattered  heaps.  Little  Benjamin  stood  at  the 
horse's  head,  just  high  enough  to  stroke  the  creature's  face, 
which  was  stooped  down  in  recognition  to  the  child,  proving 
also  a  signal  to  the  horse,  that  this  was  a  time  to  stand  still. 
Backward  and  forward  went  the  boys,  laden  with  the  old  man's 
wood — who  could  tire  in  such  a  labor  ! — while  with  a  smile  of 
peace  the  old  man  watched  them  at  their  work. 

"  Come,  Benjamin,"  at  last  said  Herbert,  "  the  horse  under- 
stands it  well  enough,  you  may  help  us  carry."  And  little  Ben- 
jamin came  to  the  heap,  and  caught  up  a  sear  old  branch 
higher  than  himself,  clasping  it  round  with  both  arms,  his  little 
pinafore  dragged  up  by  the  first  stooping  act  of  embrace,  run- 
ning ofl  with  it  to  the  shed — and  the  horse  looked  round  after 
bis  little  watcher,  but  he  saw  e\ndent  proof  that  the  business  was 
pressing,  so  he  did  his  part  and  stood  perfectly  still. 

When  the  lia'ht  labor  vas  over — ^labor  in  which  the  heart 


112  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

eased  the  hand — ^Herbert,  looking  with  complete  satisfaction  at 
the  well-filled  shed,  said,  "  Now  let  us  each  cany  a  -og  up  for 
the  fire."  Little  Benjamin,  as  was  to  be  expected,  chose  out  the 
biggest  he  could  see — ^perhaps  because  most  inviting  to  the  yet 
unmeasuring  thought  of  his  infant  spirit ;  he-  toiled  with  it  after  the 
bigger  boys,  the  young  Squire  going  first,  and  when  at  last,  with 
desperate  eftbrt,  he  cast  it  on  the  hearth — ^his  brothers  laughing  at 
its  size — his  still  sturdy  figure  overbalanced,  and,  but  for  Herbert's 
instant  spring,  he  would  have  fallen  himself  upon  the  burning 
wood  in  this  his  first  ministry  of  love  for  the  poor  and  feeble. 

"  There,  Willy  !"  said  Herbert,  "  now  we  will  all  shake  hands 
with  you,  and  be  ofi*  again."  So  they  had  each  a  hearty  shake 
of  the  hand ;  but  little  Benjamin  lifted  his  baby  face  to  old 
Willy  for  a  kiss — ^that  being  the  only  token  of  good-will  he  as 
yet  understood ;  and  then  they  all  ran  down  the  narrow  pat}\, 
6xed  in  the  stile,  sprang  over  it — ^little  Benjamin  tumbling  after 
them — then  up  into  the  light  cart,  and  merrily  home  again : 
while  old  Willy,  raising  his  eyes  and  hands,  exclaimed,  "  Sure  of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  I" 

The  gamekeeper,  still  on  the  watch,  was  at  the  open  gate 
with  his  bow  and  smile  of  welcome ;  never  had  he  looked  on 
his  young  master  with  such  hope  and  reverence  as  now — when 
he  drove  in  with  the  light  cart  by  his  children's  side,  from  tlieir 
labor  of  love.  "  Benjamin  was  a  capital  helper  !"  said  HerKsrt, 
as  the  child's  father  lifted  him  down. 

"  Shall  we  get  any  more,  sir  ?"  asked  Richard. 

"  0,  yes,  when  you  like,"  replied  Herbert.  "  It 's  worth  any 
thing  to  have  a  store  in  hand  !" 

And  the  boys  made  their  bow  in  response  to  Herbert's 
"  Good-by,"  and  returned  to  their  cottnge  quite  decided  that 
there  was  no  pleasure  now  like  gathering  wood  for  old  Willy  and 
their  young  master ;  and  it  was  fully  evident  that  old  Willy 
was  in  no  further  danger  of  perishing  for  want  of  firewood. 


CHAPTER    IX 

■  Bettei  Is  the  end  of  a  thin?  than  the  beginning  thereof;  and  the  patient  In  spirit 
is  better  than  the  proud  in  spirit."— Eccles.  viL  8. 

"nEBRUARY  passed  away,  and  the  morning  came  of  the  first  of 
-*-  March.  A  whole  month  Herbert  had  found  himself  left 
without  the  aid  of  money  ;  and  during  that  month  he  had  dis- 
covered that  true  wealth  consisteth  not  in  gold  and  silver,  and 
houses  and  lands,  but  in  the  love  of  earth  and  heaven.  In  that 
month  Herbert  had  also  learned  how  to  become  possessed  of  this 
true  wealth;  he  had  cultivated  prayer,  and  faith,  and  effort, 
and  they  had  all  taken  root  Avithin  his  heart — there  they  grew, 
watered  by  the  Divine  Word,  and  love  from  above  and  from 
around  responded  to  them.  Herbert  had  set  himself  to  learn 
the  lesson  that  at  first  looked  so  hard  to  him ;  he  turned  to  the 
heavenly  Counselor — to  whom  none  ever  tunied  with  their 
whole  heart  in  vain — and  he  had  found  that  the  knowledge  of 
Wisdom  was  sweet  to  his  soul,  and  that  verily  in  keeping  God's 
commandments  there  is  great  reward. 

Herbert  remembered  what  day  it  was,  when  he  woke,  and 
thoughts  of  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future  filled  his  mind ; 
but  he  knew  where  to  take  his  thoughts  now — even  to  a  heav- 
enly Father's  feet ;  and  when  we  take  our  thoughts  and  plant 
them  by  prayer  at  our  heavenly  Father's  feet,  they  are  sure  to 
spring  up  and  bear  sweet  fi'uit,  in  God's  best  time,  to  His  glory 
and  our  comfort — ^however  bitter  they  might  be  when  we  took 


114  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

them  there.  The  light  of  the  early  spring  morning  was  shining 
peacefully  into  Herbert's  room ;  he  opened  his  window  and 
breathed  the  keen  freshness  of  the  air  ;  the  first  bright  beams  of 
day  seemed  lingering  in  the  heavens — their  vailed  radiance 
gently  dispersing  the  darkness  of  earth,  before  they  rose  above 
and  poured  their  beams  upon  it.  Leafless  and  still  lay  the 
misty  woods ;  but  the  wakeful  deer  were  already  feeding,  side 
by  side,  on  tlie. young  herbage;  for  the  creatures  not  made  to 
labor  in  the  sin-def>led  service  of  man  need  but  short  sluiaber 
to  refresh  them.  Herbert  heard  the  sheep-bell  tinkle  in  the 
distance — the  sheep-bell  of  his  father's  flock,  and  the  sound  led 
his  thoughts  to  Jem,  and  on  to  old  Willy  ;  and  then  he  looked 
on  the  gamekeeper's  cottage,  just  visible  from  his  window 
among  the  tall  fir-trees,  and  his  kindly  feeling  gathered  round 
his  little  helpers  there ;  and  his  thought  turned  homeward, 
where  one  short  month  seemed  to  have  made  all  doubly  dear  to 
him — and  from  that  hallowed  resting-place  he  looked  up  into 
the  rosy  sky,  and  remembered  the  dark  wintry  night  and  the 
heavy  gloomy  clouds  on  which  he  had  gazed  only  a  month 
before,  and  he  thought  again  of  his  sister's  words,  "  There  is  no 
darkness  upon  earth  that  God  can  not  lighten  ;"  and  in  the 
peace-giving  assurance  of  the  same  faith,  he  shut  his  window 
\nd  turned  in  quiet  feeling  to  his  studies. 

"  What  can  this  be  ?"  said  Herbert  to  himself,  as  he  took  up 
a  small  white  paper  parcel  lying  beside  his  desk ;  it  was  not 
there  when  he  went  to  rest,  some  one  must  have  been  into  his 
room  after  he  had  fallen  asleep.  It  was  directed  in  his  father's 
hand-writing.     He  opened  it ;  there  was  a  note  within. . 

"  My  dearest  Boy, 

"  The  pain  of  a  month  ago  was  well  worth  enduring  for  the 
/hankfulness  of  heart  that,  I  trust,  we  both  feel  to-day.     I  did 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  lid 

not  wish  to  make  you  pooi,  but  only  to  lead  you  to  discover 
what  poverty  really  is — lest  you  should  be  deceived  by  the  out- 
ward show  of  wealth,  and  have  supposed  that,  having  that,  you 
were  of  necessity  rich.  But  now,  I  trust,  my  highest  wish  may 
be  realized,  and  you  found  rich  even  in  poverty — ^if  this  world's 
poverty  should  ever  be  your  lot — rich  in  the  love,  and  grace, 
and  the  blessing  of  God,  from  which  nothing  can  separate — rich 
in  the  will,  the  wisdom,  and  the  power  of  effort.  I  therefore 
gladly  renew  your  allowance  of  the  useful  coin,  on  which  I  trust 
you  will  not  now  place  a  false  dependence  and  value.  And 
as  your  interests  in  life  are  so  happily  enlarged,  I  enlarge  your 
means  of  meeting  them  by  doubling  your  monthly  income. 
Only  remember,  that  you  will  need  the  heavenly  Counselor 
quite  as  much  with  your  purse  as  without  it ; — it  was  the  wisest 
of  men  who  said,  *  He  that  hearkeneth  imto  counsel  is  wise !' 
"  Your  affectionate  father, 

"H.  Clifford." 

The  golden  treasure  lay  folded  within.  Herbert  could  scarcely 
believe  himself  possessed  of  so  much  money  ;  he  put  it  safe  in 
his  desk,  determined  to  keep  it  with  the  greatest  care  ;  then  he 
looked  at  his  watch,  for  he  longed  to  go  to  his  father,  but  it  was 
too  early  yet  to  hope  for  that,  so  he  took  his  books ;  but  his 
thoughts  wandered  away  to  his  new  possession,  and  a  ceaseless 
succession  of  things  that  might  be  done  with  it,  presented  them- 
selves to  his  mind.  A  new  world  of  living  interest  lay  freshly 
discovered  around  him,  and  he  had  never  yet  tried  the  effect  of 
money's  aid  on  any  object  in  it ;  so  that  his  fancy  was  busy 
with  a  thousand  thoughts,  and  his.  lessons  lay  unlearned.  But 
suddenly  a  voice  spoke  within  Herbert's  heart — a  still  small 
voice — and  it  whispered  there,  "  Every  good  gift,  and  every  per- 
fect gift  is  from  above,  and  cometh  down  from  the  Father  of 


116  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

lights,  with  whom  is  no  variableness,  neither  shadow  of  turn 
ing."  The  words  were  famihar  to  him ;  he  had  himself  hid 
them  within  his  heart ;  he  had  read  them,  learned  them  ;  they 
were  part  of  the  very  first  chapter  he  had  turned  to  in  his  time 
of  trouble,  and  now  in  his  hour  of  prosperity  they  rose  up 
within  his  soul  and  spoke  to  him,  and  taught  him  now  as  that 
same  chapter  had  taught  him  then — it  had  led  him  in  his 
trouble  to  pray — it  led  him  now  in  his  prosperity  to  give  thanks. 
Herbert  remembered  that  while  he  had  longed  to  run  to  meet 
his  earthly  father,  he  had  not  hastened  to  give  thanks  to  that 
Heavenly  Father — ^the  Father  of  all  his  light  and  comfort,  from 
whom  this  good  gift  came  to  him.  0,  happy  child,  who  binds 
the  word  of  God  by  memory's  help  upon  his  heart — "  When  he 
goeth,  it  shall  lead  him  ;  when  he  sleepeth,  it  shall  keep  him  ; 
when  he  awaketh,  it  shall  talk  with  him.  For  the  command- 
ment is  a  lamp,  and  the  law  is  light ;  and  reproofs  of  instruction 
are  the  way  of  life."  Herbert  had  been  afraid  to  go  so  early  to 
his  earthly  father,  but  our  Heavenly  Father's  presence  is  always 
open  to  His  children.  His  ear  always  ready  to  listen  to  their 
roice  ;  and  when  Herbert  had  hastened  where  the  Divine  Word 
called  him,  then  he  found  that  he  could  return  to  his  lessons 
and  learn  them — strengthened  against  the  imaginations  that  be- 
fore had  led  his  thoughts  wandering  away  from  his  books  ;  for 
when  we  have  been  speaking  to  our  Father  in  heaven,  whatever 
it  may  be  that  we  have  had  to  say  to  Him,  we  are  sure  to  come 
back  to  our  next  duty  better  able  to  fulfill  it,  than  before  we 
went  into  the  presence  of  God  and  talked  with  Him.  Now 
Herbert  studied  diligently ;  so  quickly  he  learned  that  he  was 
able  to  lay  by  his  books — ^liis.  lessons  all  prepared — ten  minutes 
before  the  nine  o'clock  prayer-bell  rang.  He  hastened  down  to 
look  for  his  father ;  he  knocked  at  the  study-door,  and  was  ad- 
mitted there.     No  one  knew  what  Herbert  said  to  his  father,  or 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  117 

what  his  father  said  to  him ;  but  every  one  could  see  the  glad- 
ness of  Herbert's  face  as  lie  came  in  to  prayers  by  his  father's 
side.  His  mother  and  his  sister  were  happy  in  his  joy,  and  all 
was  brightness  at  the  morning  meal. 

Herbert  thought  that  when  he  had  finished  his  lessons  he 
would  go  and  call  on  old  Willy  :  he  did  not  mean  to  be  in  any 
haste  to  lay  out  his  money,  he  only  thought  he  should  like  to 
know  how  he  should  feel  in  old  Willy's  cottage,  now  that  he  had 
money  to  spend ;  so  after  his  studies  were  over,  he  set  out  for 
the  cottage.  Old  Willy  was  walking  about  in  his  garden,  where 
every  thing  looked  fresh  after  the  rain  that  had  fallen  the  whole 
of  the  day  before,  and  the  early  part  of  the  night.  Eighty  years 
old  Willy  had  lived  in  that  cottage ;  it  was  there  that  he  was 
bom,  and  he  had  never  slept  a  night  from  under  its  roof ;  and 
now  he  watched  the  dwelling's  decay  much  as  he  watched  the 
failure  of  his  own  bodily  powers ;  sometimes  with  an  anxious 
fear  that  the  old  building  after  all  should  not  cover  his  aged 
head  to  the  last,  for  it  had  been  left  so  long  without  repair  that 
its  decay  had  become  very  rapid.  Many  people  wondered  that 
the  old  man  would  live  in  such  a  place,  and  still  more,  that  he 
went  on  paying  the  same  rent  for  it  as  they  did  for  their  warm 
abodes  ;  but  Willy  had  a  hard  landlord  ;  he  must  pay  his  full 
rent,  or  he  must  go  ;  and  the  thought  of  changing  that  old 
place  for  any  other  would  have  seemed  to  him  like  leaving  his 
native  land  for  a  strange  country.  Herbert  stood  in  the  cottage- 
garden  beside  old  Willy ;  but  a  black  cloud  overhead  burst  in  a 
pelting  shower,  and  Herbert  and  old  Willy  took  refuge  within 
by  the  low  embers  of  the  wood-fire.  "  I  will  make  that  fire  up 
when  the  storm  is  over,"  said  Herbert,  as  he  drew  out  the  low 
stool  and  sat  down  close  in  front  of  old  Willy,  to  make  him  hear 
the  more  easily  when  he  spoke  to  him.  And  then  he  looked 
round  the  room  with  the  eyes  of  one  who  felt  that  he  had  money 


118  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

at  his  disposal,  but  who  also  felt  that  he  had  learned  the  use  of 
his  OWE  hands. 

"  Why,  I  declare,"  at  last  exclaimed  Herbert,  getting  np,  and 
Sfoino;  to  the  middle  of  the  room,  "  if- there  is  not  a  hole  here  a 
foot  deep— what  a  frightful  hole  !  Why,  it  is  a  foot  and  a  half 
deep  !  I  could  fill  up  that  in  no  time,  and  lay  in  a  couple  of 
bricks  to  match  the  rest  of  the  floor,  which  is  all  about  as  bad 
as  it  can  be  !" 

"  No,  thank  you,  master,"  replied  old  Willy,  "  it  would  be  no 
charity  to  fill  that  hole  up  ;  I  could  not  live  in  the  old  place 
without  it,  and  I  am  often  trying  after  making  it  a  bit  bigger." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Willy  ?"  said  Herbert,  still  standing  over 
the  hole ;  "  such  a  place  as  that  can  be  of  no  use  except  to 
break  one's  leg  in,  just  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  here  !"  And 
Herbert  put  his  own  foot  in,  which  went  down  up  to  his  knee. 

But  old  Willy  made  answer,  "  Ah,  master,  there  are  those  who 
know  the  use  of  many  a  thing,  that  some  above  them  would  do 
away  vnih,  and  never  think  of  the  trial  they  would  leave  behind  !'* 
Old  Willy  did  not  mean  to  make  any  allusion  to  his  log  when 
tumbled  into  the  ditch  ;  but  Herbert  remembered  it,  and  stood 
silent,  looking  down  into  the  hole.  Then  old  Willy,  rising 
slowly,  said,  "  I  will  show  you  the  use  of  it,  master.  There  is 
never  a  heavy  rain  but  the  old  roof  drips  all  over,  and  just  above 
that  hole  the  water  pours  down  in  a  stream  sometimes  enough 
to  drown  the  place ;  you  may  see  the  light  through,  if  you  look 
up  that  way,"  said  old  Willy,  pointing  to  a  particular  place  in 
the  roof  with  his  stick  ;  "  and  so  I  scooped  out  this  hole,  and 
then,  if  the  rain  be  not  long,  the  water  settles  there,  instead  of 
flooding  the  old  place  ;  but  if  it  holds  long  there,  I  fall  to  ladling 
it  out  as  it  comes  ;  but  it  is  dangerous,  I  know,  for  all  that,  and 
I  always  keep  a  slip  of  an  old  board  over  it ;  but  last  night  it 
rained  piteous  ;  I  was  up  half  the  night  ladling  it  out  as  I  best 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  119 

could,  aud  I  left  it  open  to-day  ;"  and  even  as  old  "Willy  spoko 
the  rain-drops  began  to  drip  from  the  roof,  and  a  small  stream 
to  pour  down  into  the  ready-made  hole. 

"  Is  it  always  Hke  this  when  it  rains  ?"  asked  Herbert,  indig- 
nantly. 

"  j^o,  master,  not  when  the  rain  is  soon  over  ;  but  you  see  th6 
old  thatch  was  ringing  wet  before  this  shower  came,  and  it  is 
always  bad  when  the  rain  holds  any  while.  I  was  dragging 
about  my  old  bedstead  in  the  dead  of  last  night,  trying  to  get 
some  place  to  lie  down  in  where  the  rain  would  not  drip  on 
me,  and  I  could  not  find  so  much  as  a  dry  corner  to  lay  my 
head  under.  I  was  wholly  worn  out,  and  I  thought  it  seemed 
so  hard  to  pay  the  rent  I  did  so  regular,  and  then  not  to  be 
able  to  find  a  place  to  lie  down  in  !  And  I  sat  down  on  my 
old  bed  and  cried  ;  but  then  those  words  rose  up  in  my  heart, 
'  The  Son  of  man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head !'  And  O 
how  ashamed  I  felt  to  be  fretting  there,  just  as  it  seemed  be- 
cause I  was  like  my  Lord  !  and  then  I  thought  how  all  the 
world  was  His,  and  He  had  made  it  so  beautiful  for  us  sinful 
creatures  to  dwell  in  !  and  yet  he  had  not  so  much  as  a  place 
He  could  call  His  own  in  it,  but  was  forced  to  go  up  the 
mountains,  when  He  was  seeking  after  getting  by  Himself 
alone.  And  so  I  felt  wholly  ashamed,  and  lighted  up  my  fire 
and  my  candle,  and  got  looking  into  my  Book,  where  it  speaks 
about  that  place  He  is  gone  to  prepare  for  the  like  of  me, 
whom  the  Book  says  he  came  to  save  !  And  then,  when  the 
rain  gave  over,  I  laid  down,  and,  to  my  thinking,  I  had  one  of 
the  best  sleeps  I  ever  had  under  the  old  rooi^  thanks  be  to  Him 
who  gave  it." 

"But,"  said  Herbert,  "I  should  just  like  to  know  who  it 
is  that  pretends  to  let  you  such  a  place  as  this,  and  call  it  a 
house  f 


120  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  It 's  a  Master  Sturgeon  that  owns  the  place,  sir  ;  this  hoii89 
and  the  bit  of  land  round  it  was  left  to  him  by  a  relation  ;  'tis 
all  that  he  has  in  the  parish.  He  is  well  to  do  in  the  world,  I 
have  heard  say  ;  but  to  my  thinking  it 's  sometimes  them  that 
have  most  who  see  the  most  use  in  laying  of  it  up,  instead  of 
laying  of  it  out ;  for  if  I  have  asked  him  once,  to  be  sure  I 
have  twenty  times,  when  I  carried  in  my  rent,  to~  be  so  good  as 
to  lay  out  so  much  as  a  few  shillings  of  it  on  the  old  place  ;  but 
he  never  gave  the  least  heed  in  the  world,  nor  yet  to  lower  the 
rent,  though  I  never  owed  him  a  shilling ;  so  I  have  given  up 
asking,  and  now  'tis  too  bad  for  mending." 

"  Then  let  him  put  on  a  new  roof !"  replied  Herbert. 

"  Well,  tf  be  sure,  sir,  that  might  mend  it ;  but  them  that  lova 
money,  wli"' ,  ^tis  hard  for  them  to  part  with  it  when  there  ia 
not  a  necdF  .ity." 

"  But  ih  J* )  is  a  necessity  !  are  you  to  He  all  night  long  with 
water  diipping  over  you,  when  we  should  not  suffer  a  drop  to 
rain  through  in  our  dog-kennel  ?" 

"  No,  master,  'tis  very  true  ;  but  an  old  man  like  me,  that  'a 
past  being  any  use  to  any  body,  and  only  lies  like  a  burden  on 
the  parish,  why,  'tis  not  to  be  expected  that  any  one  should 
look  after  me  !  and  no  doubt  Master  Sturgeon  thinks  the  old 
place  will  hold  out  the  old  man  ;  and  then  may  be  he  will  do 
Bomething  different  by  it ;  but  you  see  them  that  are  after  money, 
why,  'tis  not  their  way  to  be  after  parting  with  it  for  them  that 
are  past  being  any  use  to  any  one,  like  as  I  am  now." 

Old  Willy  had  seated  himself  again  in  his  chair,  and  Her- 
bert had  drawn  his  stool  close  to  it,  his  face  raised  to  old 
Willy's ;  and  now  he  laid  his  hand  on  old  Willy's  knee,  and 
said,  "  Willy,  dear  old  Willy !  you  are  of  use,  you  are  of  the 
greatest  use  to  me ;  I  have  been  a  great  deal  happier,  and  get 
on  a  hundi-ed  times  better  since  I  fii*st  came  to  see  after  you  1 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  121 

I  should  not  know  wliat  to  do  without  you,  now ;  and  no  one 
can  or  shall  think  you  a  burden !" 

"  The  good  Lord  above  bless  you  !"  said  the  old  man,  as  he 
laid  his  labor-worn  hand  on  the  little  soft  one  that  rested  on 
his  knee.  Old  Willy  said  no  more,  and  Herbert  sat  lo?t  in 
thought  a  few  moments,,  then  looking  up  again  full  of  ear- 
nestness, he  said,  "  I  tell  you  what,  Willy,  you  shall  not  lie 
without  a  dry  roof  over  you,  to  be  rained  upon  all  night  long  ; 
I  say  it,  Willy,  you  shall  not ;  and  if  your  landlord  has  no 
thought  for  you,  there  is  some  one  who  has,  and  who  has  the 
power,  too  1" 

"  Yes,  master,  blessed  be  God,  don't  I  know  His  own  words 
— '  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you !'  and  they  come  in  to 
comfort  me  aftei  every  trouble,  like  the  bow  'cross  the  dark  cloud." 

"  Yes,  Willy,  but  I  don't  mean  our  Saviour ;  I  mean  some 
one  here  who  can  help  you,  and  who  will.  I  mean  that  I  can, 
and  I  shall ;  and  it  won't  be  like  the  coals,  Willy,  for  I  have 
the-  money  now  of  my  own  !" 

The  aged  Willy  looked  inquiringly  on  the  bright  young 
face,  in  which  love  for  the  old  man,  joy  at  the  power,  and  earn- 
est purpose  to  aid  and  comfort  were  all  blended  in  full  express- 
ion ;  but  he  did  not  say  any  thing,  for  he  did  not  quite  take  in 
the  idea  that  any  one  except  the  landlord,  and  still  less  the 
child  at  his  knee,  could  think  of  new-roofing  his  cottage.  But 
while  he  looked  in  inquiring  silence,  Herbert  suddenly  remem- 
bered the  time,  and  wishing  him  then  a  hearty  "  good-by,"  not 
without  another  assurance  that  old  Willy  would  soon  see  what 
would  be  done  to  the  roof !  he  took  his.  leave. 

As  Herbert  pursued  his  homeward  way  he  began  to  think, 
wliat  would  his  father  say  to  his  new  promise  ?  He  thought 
of  his  letter  that  morning  received,  and  the  only  part  that  awoke 
a  fear  waa  the  last  sentence  in  it,  "  Remember,  he  that  hearken- 


122  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

eth  unto  counsel  is  wise."  "  Perhaps,  then,"  thouglit  Herl  ei*t, 
"  I  ought  to  have  consulted  papa  first ;  but  who  that  had  the 
money  could  help  saying  it  should  be  done  !  I  don't  believe  papa 
could,  and  I  will  tell  him  so  if  he  objects ;  but  he  will  not  object 
now,  because  I  have  the  money  all  my  own,  and  he  has  never 
found  fault  with  me  for  spending  my  own  money  as  I  liked, 
and  he  must  be  glad  I  should  spend  it  in  keeping  old  Willy 
dry  ;  though  his  landlord  ought  to  do  it ;  yet  if  he  won't,  some 
one  must,  or  old  Willy  must  be  left  to  perish !"  So  Herbert 
braced  up  his  courage  and  went  to  dinner,  but  still  he  felt  some 
difficulty  in  telling  of  an  engagement  that  must  consume  his 
whole  month's  allowance,  entered  into  on  the  day  of  receiving 
it ;  but  what  could  he  have  done  better  with  it  ?  again  he 
thought ;  so  after  being  silent  through  dinner,  he  ventured  when 
the  dessert  was  on  the  table  to  begin,  "  Papa,  I  hope  -I  have  not 
cut  my  fingers  again,  but  if  I  have,  I  really  believe  you  would 
have  done  the  same  if  you  had  been  in  my  place  !" 

"  Very  likely,"  replied  his  father,  "  I  have  done  so  in  your 
sense  of  the  phrase,  more  than  once  or  twice,  and  it  is  the  ex- 
perience I  learned  by  such  mistakes,  that  I  would  gladly  use  to 
guard  you." 

Again  Herbert  thought  to  himself,  "  Ah  !  papa  means  I 
should  consult  him  ; — I  wish  I  had,  but  it 's  too  late  now  !" 

"  Well,  papa,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  once ;  I  have  been  to 
see  old  Willy,  and,  would  you  believe  it  ?  every  rainy  night  his 
thatch  drips  with  water  from  every  part,  and  a  stream  pours 
down  in  the  middle  of  his  room,  and  he  has  dug  a  hole  in  the 
floor  to  catch  the  water  ;  a  deep  hole  in  wnich  he  might  break 
his  leg  any  day,  and  his  landlord  won't  do  ary  thing  to  the  roof 
to  mend  it!" 

*  And  so  my  son  Herbert  is  going  to  do  the  landlord's  work 
for  him,  I  suppose  ?"  said  Mr.  Clifibrd. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  123 

"  Not  for  the  landlord,  papa  ;  I  would  send  him  to  prison  if  I 
could  !  but  for  old  Willy  ;  he  can  not  do  it  for  himself,  and  if  no 
one  will  do  it  for  him,  why  he  must  die  from  wet  and  damp. 
What  else  could  1  do,  when  I  had  money  of  my  own,  papa  ?" 

"  You  could  not  do  otherwise  if  the  love  of  God  was  in  your 
heart,  and  the  means  in  your  hand,  and  no  reason  against  it 
strong  enough  to  prevent:  but  I  am  afraid  there  is  a  strong 
reason  against  your  doing  it,  which,  if  you  had  consulted  me 
first,  I  could  have  told  you." 

"  What  reason,  papa  ?"  asked  Herbert ;  and  again  his  heart 
sank  within  him,  and  the  secret  wish  again  was  ready  to  rise, 
that  in  this  case  he  had  let  charity  alone. 

"  There  is  this  reason  against  it — that  there  are  men  in  this 
parish  comparatively  poor,  owning  a  cottage  or  two,  and  keep- 
ing them  in  good  repair,  when  I  know  they  must  often  feel  the 
want  of  all  the  money  they  can  get :  and  there  is  this  one 
wretched  dwelling,  owned  by  a  man  who  could  rebuild  it  and 
not  miss  the  money  so  spent ;  but,  because  he  will  not  spare 
enough  to  put  a  diy  roof  over  it^  are  those  poor  but  honest  men, 
who  have  made  it  their  care  to  keep  their  tenants  comfortable, 
to  see  the  aid,  never  extended  to  them,  bestowed  on  an  unprin- 
cipled man  who  withholds  the  right  of  his  tenant  from  him  ?" 

"  But  then,  papa,  should  old  Willy  be  left  to  perish  because 
that  miser  of  a  man  will  not  do  what  is  right  ?" 

"  Old  Willy  need  not  perish  ;  and  though  I  have  no  doubt  it 
would  distress  him  to  leave  the  house  in  which  he  was  born,  still 
we  must  not  discourage  good  and  honest  men  by  aiding  a  bad 
one,  to  save  old  Willy  this  pain." 

"  But,  papa,  I  have  promised  !" 

"  O,  my  boy,  why  so  hasty  !  Could  you  not  have  asked  youi 
father  first  ?  But  if  we  afterward  find  that  any  thing  would 
make  the  fulfillment  of  a  promise  a  wrong  act  toward  others,  we 


124  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

must  ackuowledge  it,  and  endeavor  to  the  utmost  to  oLtain  the 
same  object  in  a  right  way." 

"  Well,  papa,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  who  could  ever  have 
stopped  to  think.of  the  whole  parish  of  landlords,  when  they  saw 
that  one  poor  suffering  old  man  !  What  can  I  do  to  keep  my 
promise  in  another  way  ?" 

"  I  think  the  best  thing  would  be  to  go  yourself  to  the  land- 
lord, and  try  to  awaken  a  right  feeling  on  the  subject." 

"  It 's  no  use  to  ask  him,  papa  ;  old  Willy  asked  till  he  gave 
up  in  despair." 

"  You  have  not  tried  him  yourself  yet,"  replied  Mr.  Cliflford ; 
"  and  you  can  not  say  that  it  would  be  of  no  use  till  the  trial  is 
made.  The  prophet  Nehemiah,  in  his  appeal  to  the  heathen 
king,  will  teach  us  better — if  we  only  set  about  our  requests  to 
others  as  he  did,  with  pray  or  to  the  God  of  Heaven,,  we  may  be 
answered  as  he  was.  So  do  not  be  discouraged,  my  boy,  but 
try  it  in  prayer  and  faith,  and  you  will  most  surely  find,  sooner 
or  later,  that  you  went  not  alone  to  the  work." 

"  But,  papa,  I  should  hate  to  see  the  man  ;  I  should  be  sure 
to  get  into  a  passion  with  him." 

"  Then  you  had  better  not  put  yourself  in  his  way,  for  if  you 
have  no  rule  over  your  own  spirit,  you  certainly  have  no  hope 
of  success  with  another  !" 

"  But  how  could  I  help  it,  papa  ?" 

"  Only  by  having  more  of  the  spirit  of  Him  who  commendeth 
His  love  toward  us,  in  '  that  while  we  were  yet  sinners,  Christ 
died  for  us.'  And  in  truth  old  Willy's  rich  landlord  is  more  to 
be  pitied  than  old  Willy.  Old  Willy  can  suffer  but  a  little 
time  :  a  little  moment — and  his  light  affliction  will  be  over  for 
ever ;  for  he  is  the  heir  of  an  eternal  kingdom ;  but  the  other 
must  have  his  portion  with  that  rich  man  we  read  of  in  the 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  125 

Bible,  wlio  lifted  up  his  eyes  in  torment — and  that  for  ever,  if 
his  heart  is  not  changed." 

"  I  am  sure  I  wish  it  may  be  changed,  papa,  for  old  Willy's 
sake  as  well  as  his  own  ;  but  I  don't  seem  to  feel  any  hope." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted,  and  Herbert  was  soon 
at  his  sister's  side.  "  Is  it  not  dreadful,  Mary,  to  have  to  talk  to 
Buch  a  man  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  Herbert,  I  dare  say  you  feel  it  so ;  but  you 
remember  our  Saviour  was  continually  talking  with  those  who 
were  always  sinning  against  His  Heavenly  Father ;  and  if  we 
follow  His  example,  we  may  do  even  the  wicked  good — with  the 
help  and  blessing  of  God." 

"  Well,"  replied  Herbert,  "  I  am  sure  charity  is  the  steepest 
hill  I  ever  climbed ;  I  get  a  slip  every  step  I  try  at;  and  how  to 
get  up  again  is  more  than  I  can  tell !" 

"  But  have  you  not  found  that  there  is  One  standing  on  that 
steep  hill-side,  to  lift  you  up  again  when  you  fall  ?  Did  not  the 
Heavenly  Counselor  stoop  to  lift  you  up  before  ?  and  did  He 
not  show  you  a  friend  to  help  you  ?  It  is  better  to  foil  at  His 
feet,  than  to  stand  where  He  is  not !  And  if  the  hill  be  steep 
there  is  always  sunshine  on  the  top.  Was  there  not  sunshine 
for  you  when  you  stood  on  the  last  of  old  Willy's  log,  and  saw 
it  all  ready  for  his  use  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  was  pleasant  enough." 

"  And  so  it  will  be  when  you  stand  in  old  Willy's  garden,  and 
look  with  him  on  the  new  roof  of  his  cottage." 

"  O,  Mary,  do  you  think  it  really  will  be  done,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  no  doubt  about  it — ^when  the  right  time  comes — 
if  we  do  not  give  up  hope  and  effort." 

"  O  dear,"  sighed  Herbert,  "  how  glad  I  shall  be  when  to-mor- 
row is  over !  I  think  this  is  a  worse  job  than  the  old  log — hut 
I  will  try  at  it  for  all  that." 


126  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  'i.''ou  wil)  not  think  it  worse  when  the  end  comes,  dear 
Herbert." 

"  B»it,  Mary,  you  don't  know  the  end ;  what  is  it  makes  you 
Bure  it  will  be  good  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  quite  sure  whenever  we  try  to  help  the  poor, 
in  a  right  spirit,  and  in  a  right  way,  that  God  is  with  us,  and  will 
not  suffer  our  effort  to  fall  to  che  ground." 

"  Well,  Mary,  now  we  shall  see — I  will  try  to  do  it  as  you  and 
papa  say  I  ought,  because  I  know  you  understand  all  about 
ch.irity,  and  then  I  will  see  what  the  end  of  it  is  !" 

"  Very  well,"  said  his  sister,  with  a  smile,  "  I  agree ;  for  I 
know  none  ever  leaned  upon  and  watched  that  unseen  Hand 
in  vain !" 

Herbert  then  stood  pledged  to  go  forth  the  next  day  in  the 
cause  of  the  poor  and  needy — the  young  child  of  earth  and 
Heaven  was  to  stand,  for  the  fii'st  time  in  his  life,  face  to  face 
"  with  the  man  of  the  earth,"  the  poor  man's  oppressor ;  no 
wonder  that  he  could  think  of  little  else !  He  went  early  to 
his  room,  and,  Hke  the  stripling  David,  preparing  to  encounter 
the  champion  of  Gath — he  made  ready  to  meet  the  stronger- 
giant  of  Oppression.  I  do  not  mean  that  Herbert  ran  to  choose 
himself  smooth  stones  from  the  brook  for  his  sling — no,  the 
weapons  of  his  warfare  were  of  another  kind :  Herbert  went 
to  the  living  stream  of  God's  most  holy  Word,  the  pebbles  he 
wanted  lay  there  ;  he  went  to  the  very  part  from  which  he  had 
gathered  often  before,  even  the  Epistle  of  St.  James ;  he  chose 
the  texts  he  thought  would  suit  him  best,  and  his  heart  was 
the  sling  in  which  he  laid  them  ready  for  use  ;  he  had  learned 
all  the  epistle  before,  but  now  he  looked  upon  it  that  he  might 
choose  what  seemed  best  for  his  purpose,  and,  having  chosen,  he 
lay  down  to  sleep. 

The  next  morning  Herbert  did  the  best  he  could  with  his 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  127 

lessons,  but  liis  heart  was  heavy,  and  he  met  his  tutor  ill -pre- 
pared ;  happily  for  him  he  had  worked  so  well  for  the  past 
montl'  that  his  tutor  readily  listened  to  his  assurance  that  he 
had  done  his  best,  and  seeing  that  something  lay  heavy  on  his 
thoughts,  allowed  him  to  carry  on  the  imperfect  lessons  to  the 
next  day,  to  be  prepared  with  his  fresh  tasks — instead  of  de- 
taining him  after  hours.  So  at  the  time  for  his  afternoon  ride 
his  ponies  were  ordered  round,  and,  having  been  in  to  his 
mother  and  sister,  and  asked  them  to  think  of  him  all  the  time, 
he  set  forth  slowly  on  swift-footed  Araby,  and  his  groom,  on 
young  Ruby,  followed  slowly  behind. 

First  he  went  to  old  Willy's  to  tell  him  the  soiTowful  tale  of 
a  disappointed  purpose.  He  found  him  seated  by  his  wood  fire, 
with  his  Bible,  that  constant  companion  of  his  blessed  old  age, 
before  him.  Herbert  had  no  doubt  that  old  Willy's  thoughts 
were  full  of  the  new  roof,  and  he  feared  that  the  old  man  would 
never  trust  him  again  after  such  a  disappointment  as  he  had 
now  to  bring.  But  the  truth  was,  that  old  Willy,  not  being 
quick  of  understanding,  had  never  taken  the  idea  of  a  new  roof 
into  his  mind ;  he  was  looking  again  upon  the  precious  words 
that  told  him  of  the  mansions  in  Heaven  that  'his  Saviour  was 
gone  to  prepare,  and  he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  last  day's 
conversation.  Herbert  began,  "  Willy,  I  don't  see  any  use  in 
my  making  a  promise  to  help  any  one,  for  I  can  never  keep  my 
word  when  I  do  !" 

"  Well,  master,  I  have  read  in  those  good  sayings  that  stand 
next  to  the  Psalms  in  my  Book,  how  that  '  the  desire  of  a  man 
is  his  kindness  !'  I  can  show  it  you,  for  I  always  keep  a  bit  of 
a  mark  tucked  in  at  that,  and  it  often  comforts  my  old  heart 
when  I  think  ipon  others,  and  there  's  nothing  but  a  prayer  I 
can  do  for  them.  Here  't  is,  master  !  I  don't  know  the  num- 
bers— no"  to  say  where  the  words  are,  but  you  will  if  you  look," 


128  MINISTERING    CHILDREN. 

"  Yes,  Willy,"  said  Herbert,  heavily,  "  but  it  puts  me  quit« 
out  of  heart  that  I  must  not  make  a  new  roof  to  keep  you  dry  ! 
Papa  thinks  it  would  go  against  those  who  keep  thciir  bouses 
as  they,  ought,  if  I  did  it  for  a  rich  man  who  could  so  easily  ao 
it  for  himself.  So  I  am  just  going  to  tell  your  landlord  how  bad 
it  is,  and  to  see  if  he  will  not  be  persuaded  to  do  it  himself ;  but 
[  declare  I  don't  see  much  hope  any  way  !" 

Old  Willy,  perceiving  that  something  troubled  his  young  mas- 
ter, had  strained  his  utmost  powers  of  attention  ;  but  Herbert's 
tone  was  low,  and  the  sentence  long,  and  all  that  old  Willy  laid 
hold  of  were  the  last  words — "  I  don't  see  much  hope  any  way  !" 
he  did  not  understand  what  the  hope  related  to,  but  his  bright 
faith  had  always  an  answer  to  the  tone  of  despondency,  so  he 
replied  at  once,  "  O,  master,  there  's  always  a  hope  up  above  ! 
and  that 's  always  a  leading  me  on,  and  sure  that 's  enough  for 
them  that  have  it  !'■' 

"  Well,  Willy,  good-by,"  said  Herbert,  with  a  sorrowful  look 
at  the  old  man  and  the  old  place ;  and  the  ministering  boy 
passed  away  in  his  sadness,  and  the  old  man  looked  with  trou- 
bled fiice  after  him,  troubled  not  for  his  unrepaired  roof — for  the 
thouirht  of  that  he  had  not  taken  in — but  troubled  because  he 
saw  the  shade  upon  the  bright  young  face  that  of  late  had  en- 
tered his  dwelling  like  the  first  glad  sunbeam  of  spring ;  and  the 
old  man  breathed  a  silent  prayer  for  the  child,  and  then  looked 
again  on  the  Words  of  Life. 

Herbert  reached  the  town — the  town  where  Mr.  Mansfield 
lived  and  little  Jane,  the  town  where  little  Ruth  and  Patience 
dwelt — the  town  was  reached,  and  then  the  street,  and  then 
the  house  ;  there  was  the  name  of  Mr.  Sturgeon  in  large  letters 
on  the  brass-plate  on  the  door.  Mr.  Sturgeon  was  at  home, 
and  Herbert  went  in.  Herbert  took  the  chair  Mr.  Sturgeon 
handed  to  him,  and  said,  "  I  am  come  to .  ask  you  to  repair  the 


MINISrERINQ     CHILDREN.  129 

cottage  of  Willy  Green ;  the  roof  is  so  bad  that  the  rain  drips 
through  all  night  long,  when  the  weather  is  very  wet."  Mr, 
Sturgeon's  countenance  fell,  and  he  replioJ,  "  I  make  a  point, 
sir,  of  knowing  the  state  of  all  my  property,  and  I  am  sorry 
that  in  this  case  I  can  not  meet  your  request." 

"  Is  there  any  reason  why  the  roof  should  not  be  mended  1" 
asked  Herbert. 

"  Yes,  the  best  of  reasons,"  rephed  Mr.  Sturgeon ;  "  I  long  ago 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  lay  out  another  shilling  on  the  old 
place  ;  my  wish  is  to  sell  it,  and  I  might  have  done  so  several 
times  over  before  now,  but  I  could  not  get  my  price  ;  and  when 
[  have  once  named  my  price,  I  never  take  less,  let  the  risk  of 
loss  to  myself  be  what  it  may." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  would  sell  the  place  over  old  Willy, 
and  turn  him  out  ?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  whoever  buys  it  will  hardly  wish  to  keep 
him  in  :  the  fact  is,  that  three  cottages  might  be  built  on  that 
piece  of  land,  and  three  times  the  money  made  of  it.  I  do 
not  wish  to  undertake  the  thing  myself,  but  I  mean  to  sell  it 
as  a  piece  capable  of  bring-ing  in  three  times  the  money  it  has 
done." 

"  It  would  break  old  Willy's  heart  to  turn  him  out !"  said 
Herbert,  earnestly ;  "  and  you  would  not  like  to  take  away  all 
his  confort  for  a  little  more  money  1" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  am  sorry  for  the  old  man  ;  but  if  his  affection 
is  so  strong  for  brick  and  mortar,  I  am  afraid  I  can  not  engage 
to  secure  his  comfort  to  him  !  I  look  upon  m^ney  as  a  means 
of  comfort  to  many  ;  I  um  a  genera  upporter  of  charitable  in- 
stitutions, but  if  I  turned  out  of  my  way  for  the  fancies  of  every 
old  man  or  old  woman,  I  must  soon  curtail  my  charities." 

"  But,"  said  Herbert,  "  when  our  way  is  not  God's  way,  it  is 
best  to  turn  out  of  it — is  it  not  ?" 


130  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  do  not  understand  you,"  replied 
Mr.  Sturgeon. 

Then  Herbert  took  the  fii'st  of  his  treasured  pebbles  trom  the 
brook — even  his  first  text  from  St.  James,  and  he  replied,  "  The 
Bible  says,  that  *  the  Lord  is  very  pitiful  and  of  tender  mercy' — 
that  is  God's  way." 

"  Indeed,  I  hope  so,"  replied  Mr.  Sturgeon,  "  or,  I  am  afraid 
the  best  of  us  will  stand  but  a  poor  chance." 

"But,"  added  Herbert,  taking  another  of  his  texts,  "the 
Bible  says  also,  that  'he  shall  have  judgment  without  mercy 
that  hath  showed  no  mercy ;'  so  won't  you  show  mercy  to  old 
Willy  ?" 

"  You  want  me,"  replied  Mr.  Sturgeon,  "  for  the  sake  of  one  old 
man,  to  curtail  my  means  of  bestowing  charity  on  the  many." 

Herbert  had  tried  hard  to  keep  his  indignation  down,  but 
now  it  rose,  and  he  replied,  "  You  have  taken  old  Willy's  rent 
for  a  place  not  fit  for  any  one  to  live  in,  and  you  can  never  do 
CHARITY  with  such  money  !  God  asks  poor  people  in  the  Bible 
if  rich  men  have  oppressed  them ;  and  will  you  not  be  afraid 
when  God  asks  old  Willy  ?" 

Mr.  Sturgeon  replied,  "  I  must  be  allowed  my  own  opinion  of 
justice,  as  well  as  you  ;  the  old  man  would  not  stay,  I  suppose,  if 
the  place  was  not  worth  more  to  him  than  the  money  he  pays  ; 
there  is  nothing  but  his  own  will  to  detain  him." 

"  But  there  is  not  an  empty  cottage  in  the  village,"  replied  Her- 
bert, "  to  which  old  Willy  would  go,  if  he  wished  ever  so  much !" 

Mr.  Sturgeon  replied,  "  Every  one  knows  there  is  a  house 
large  enough  to  receive  him  close  by  ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  think 
the  work-house  the  best  place  for  such  helpless  old  people." 

"  O,  Mr.  Sturgeon,  you  do  not  understand  the  thing,  and  so 
you  do  wrong,  and  think  it  right !  Old  Willy  is  not  helpless, 
he  <}an  do  every  thing  for  himself,  and  read  the  Bible,  too ;  and 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  181 

if  he  were  forced  to  go  into  that  heap  of  people  in  the  work- 
house, he  would  lose  all  his  quiet.  The  Bible  says, '  Thou  shalt 
love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself !'  "  This  was  the  last  pebble  Her- 
bert had  chosen  for  his  sling — the  last  selected  text  from  St. 
James,  but  the  oppressor  lelt  it  not.  Every  rejected  word  of  Holy 
Scripture,  which  seems  to  fall  powerless  at  the  hardened  sin 
ner's  feet,  will  one  day  rise  again,  to  descend  upon  him  with 
a  millstone  weight,  crushing  his  soul  for  ever.  O,  let  the  sin- 
ner then  beware  how  he  reasons  away  and  rejects  the  awful 
Word  of  God ! 

Mr.  Sturgeon  only  replied,  "  My  principle,  sir,  is,  *  Let  every 
one  see  to  his  own  interest ;'.  and,  in  a  free  country  like  ours,  where 
the  laws  are  good,  and  the  observance  of  them  strictly  enforced, 
I  do  not  know  a  principle  likely  to  work  better  for  all." 

"  Have  you  read  the  last  chapter  of  the  Epistle  of  St.  James  ?" 
asked  Herbert. 

"  Certainly  I  have,  sir ;  I  am  fully  acquainted  with  all  you 
may  wish  to  urge  on  such  a  foundation." 

"  Will  you  not,  then,  put  a  new  roof  over  old  Willy  with  the 
money  he  has  so  long  paid  you  for  rent  ?" 

"  I  have  given  you  my  answer,  sir,  and  I  must  decline  all  in* 
terference  between  me  and  my  tenant." 

"  Then  I  must  wish  you  good  day,  Mr.  Sturgeon ;  and  may 
old  Willy's  God  forgive  you !" 

Herbert  rode  away.  When  free  from  the  town,  large  tears 
came  fast ;  he  felt  overcome  with  his  effort,  but  the  sweet  air 
kissed  his  burning  cheeks  and  breathed  over  his  temples ;  he 
looked  up  into  the  clear  blue  sky,  as  only  the  child  of  the  Holy 
Heaven — the  child  of  the  God  of  the  poor  and  needy — can  look. 
Yet  his  heart  was  heavy,  and  on  his  face  the  shades  of  sin  and 
son'ow  rested — how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  He  would  not 
pass  old  Willy's  house  ;  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not  bear  to  see 


132  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

the  old  man  on  this  his  sad  return,  so  he  took  the  further  road 
to  his  home,  which  led  round  by  Mr.  Smith's  farm.  Suddenly 
Jem  appeared  in  sight — coming  along  the  distant  road  ;  he  had 
just  folded  his  sheep,  and  was  returning  home  to  his  supper. 
A  moment  more,  and  Araby  bore  his  young  master  to  the  side 
of  honest  Jem.  Jem  stood  still,  and  Herbert  threw  himself  from 
his  saddle,  intent  on  his  subject  of  thought,  and  stood  leaning 
on  Araby's  neck — the  most  effectual  way  of  keeping  his  impa- 
tient steed  quiet.  There  stood  the  eager  boy — the  child  of  for- 
tune, looking  up  to  that  poor  lad,  as  if  his  earthly  treasury  of 
hope  and  help  were  garnered  in  his  breast :  and  there  stood  the 
shepherd  youth  with  head  uncovered,  looking  down  with  loving 
reverence  on  that  young  face  upraised  to  his. 

"  O,  Jem,"  said  Herbert,  "  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  I 
should  have  been  so  glad  to  meet  as  you !  I  am  in  another 
trouble,  and  if  you  can  not  help  me,  there  is  no  one  can  now. 
Old  Willy's  roof  lets  all  the  rain-drop's  through  upon  him  ;  I 
have  been  to  his  landlord,  and  he  will  not  do  any  thing,  but  talks 
of  selling  the  place  over  his  head  !  It  will  break  old  Willy's 
heart !     What  can  be  done  ?" 

Jem  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  "  Well,  sir,  excuse 
me  ;  but  one  thing  at  a  time,  as  the  saying  is,  and  maybe  we 
shall  manage  them  all." 

"  What !  do  you  see  any  hope,  Jem  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  'tis  a  hard  case  when  hope  be  clean  gone  !  But  the 
roof — did  you  say  that 's  bad  ?" 

"  Yes,  terribly  bad — holes  all  over  !" 

"  Maybe  I  could  stop  them  up,"  said  Jem  ;  "  master  would  not 
be  against  letting  me  have  a  little  straw  for  that — that 's  certain." 

"  No,  Jem,  old  Willy  says  it 's  past  all  mending ;  and  so  I 
am  sure  it  is  •  whv,  it  drips  all  over  when  the  rain  lasts  any 
time  I" 


MINISTE/>.ING       CHILDREN.  .  133 

*' That's  ahard  case,"  repliedJem,  "when  mending  won't  da 
it,  and  there's  none  to  make  !  as  the  saying  is.  But  I  never 
found  the  trouble  yet  that  I  did  n't  see  a  light  through  when  I 
bad  been  after  it  a  bit — and  may  be  I  shall  in  this." 

"  0,  that's  right,  Jem  !  I  don't  mind  any  thing  now  I  have 
met  yon.  But  what  do  you  think  of  that  wretched  landlord 
saying  he  means  to  sell  the  old  place,  when  he  can  get  his 
price  for  it  ?  " 

**Wel],  sir,  'when' is  a  long  day — sometimes  longer  than  they 
think  for  that  fix  it !  And  there's  more  than  one  to  be  consid- 
ered in  this,  I  take  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Jem  1 " 

"  Why,  sir,  when  my  poor  mother  was  left  a  widow  and  I 
was  but  a  child,  with  nothing  to  look  to  but  her,  manys  the 
time  I  have  seen  her  cast  down  till  her  spirits  were  wholly 
gone,  and  then  she  would  say,  *  Well,  child,  '*  the  king's  lieai  t  is 
in  the  hands  of  the  Lord,"  and  so  things  may  turn  yet.*  And, 
to  be  sare,  how  they  did  turn  !  Once,  I  remember,  we  were  as 
near  as  any  thing  to  being  sent  right  away  to  our  own  parish, 
where  we  had  not  a  creature  to  look  to;  mother  took  on  won- 
derfully ;  she  was  always  praying  and  fretting  about  it ;  and 
then,  at  the  last,  they  turned  the  right  way  for  us  to  stay..  So 
I  have  never  forgot  that  saying.  I  take  it  to  be  from  the  Bible, 
and  that  it's  a  certain  thing,  if  the  Lord  holds  him  that  has 
the  biggest  power,  he  holds  them  too  that  have  the  less  ;  and  so 
may  be  the  landlord  won't  have  his  way  with  Willy  after  all !  " 

"  That's  right,  Jem  ;  I  shall  think  so  too.  How  glad  I  am  I 
met  you  !  Good  night  1  "  and  Herbert  gave  hirn  a  hearty  shake 
of  the  hand — to  which  gratitude,  hope,  and  affection  all  lent 
their  force,  and  springing  again  on  swift-footed  Araby,  was  soon 
ut  the  door  of  his  home.  The  shade  had  passed  from  his  brow, 
the  weight  from  his  young  spirit — the  chill  of  the  cold-hearted 
oppressor  lost  in  the  sense  of  Jem's  voice  of  hcpf».  and  hand  of 


134  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

power — and  the  spirit  of  the  rich  boy  leaned  on  the  poor  boy, 
tis  the  honeysuckle  depends  on  some  stem  of  sturdier  growth, 
which  the  God  of  nature  has  caused  to  spring  up  at  its  side. 

Meanwhile,  Jem  went  home  to  his  supper ;  the  frugal  meal 
was  waiting  his  return  ;  a  log  blazing  on  the  hearth,  Mary  sit- 
ting close  beside  it,  knitting  him  a  pair  of  stockings,  the  worsted 
bought  with  the  money  saved  by  the  firewood,  which  set  aside 
the  expense  of  coal ;  his  mother  at  work  in  her  large  old  spec- 
tacles, that  fastened  by  a  spring  on  her  nose.  They  soon  sat 
down  to  supper :  Jem  was  unusually  silent.  "  What 's  the  mat- 
ter of  it,  boy  ?"  at  last  asked  his  mother ;  "  you  are  not  think- 
ing about  your  supper,  I  'm  sure." 

"  Well,  no,  mother,  I  suppose  I  was  not,"  said  Jem,  going  on 
no  less  thoughtfully  with  his  meal.  After  supper,  Jem  took  his 
hat  and  went  out,  saying  he  had  not  done  yet  for  the  night. 

"  He  is  a  working  at  something !"  said  his  mother ;  "  may  be 
he  will  tell  us  after  a  bit." 

Jem  walked  thoughtfully  along,  his  feet  seemed  to  guide  him, 
rather  than  he  them,  up  to  the  farm.  He  looked  at  his  folded 
sheep ;  but  it  was  plain  his  thoughts  were  away — for  he  took 
no  notice  of  the  bleat  of  his  favorite  lamb,  who  had  heard  it& 
shepherd's  step,  and  pressed  its  white  head  against  the  pen  that 
shut  it  in.  Jem  came  round  by  the  back  of  the  farm ;  a  storm 
was  gathering  in  the  evening  sky ;  Jem  looked  at  it,  then  anx 
iously  around ;  he  was  standing  then  in  the  stack-yard,  and 
on  the  further  side  of  it  his  eye  fell  on  a  large  old  tarpauling. 
that  had  been  used  the  evening  before  to  cover  over  a  stack 
only  partly  removed  to  the  barn  ;  the  remainder  had  now  been 
carried  in,  and  the  tarpauling  not  yet  put  away.  "  'Tis  the  very 
tling!"  exclaimed  Jem,  and  as  he  spoke  he  hastened  to  the 
back-door  of  the  farm. 

"  You  are  wanted,  Master  William,  if  you  please,"  said  M  plly, 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  136 

at  tlie  open  door  of  the  keeping-room,  and  William  Avent  out  to 
the  door  of  the  back-kitchen. 

"  Well,  Jem,  any  thing  wrong  with  the  sheep  ?"  asked  William. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  wish  all  was  as  right  with  others  as  'tis  with 
them,  and  then  I  had  not  need  be  after  disturbing  you." 

"  Never  mind  that ;  what 's  the  matter  now  ?" 

"  Why,  Master  Green's  roof  lets  all  the  wet  through  upon  him, 
and  there  's  a  terrible  storm  now  coming  up,  and  I  don't  seem 
as  if  I  could  rest  if  he  is  to  be  rained  upon  all  night  long." 

"  Well,  but  what  can  be  done  ?"  asked  William ;  "  there 's  no 
time  and  no  light  to  be  mending  it  to-night." 

"  No,  it 's  not  mending  will  do  it,  it 's  past  all  that ;  the  more 
shame  to  them  that  have  suffered  it." 

"  But  what 's  to  be  done,  then  ?  You  can't  make  a  new  roof, 
I  suppose — and  to-night  into  the  bargain  !" 

"  Why,  that 's  just  what  I  was  thinking  if  I  could,  for  as  I  came 
down  by  the  barn,  I  saw  the  old  tarpauling  lying  there  ;  now 
the  old  roof  is  no  bigness  but  what  that  would  cover  it,  and  I  '11 
be  bound  not  a  drop  would  get  through,  if  it  rains  e.ver  so." 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  that  is  a  new  roof  after  a  fashion  !"  replied 
William ;  "  and  if  the  old  tarpauling  was  mine,  you  should  have 
it  in  a  minute  ;  I  am  only  afraid  it  will  go  against  father  to 
.end !     But  you  wait  about,  and  I  will  hear  what  he  says." 

Away  turned  Jem  to  stand  and  look  at  things  without  seeing 
them,  and  back  went  William  to  the  keeping-room.  His  father 
was  resting  in  his  chair  by  the  fire,  and  his  mother  was  busy  at 
her  needle  ;  William  stood  a  minute  at  the  window  looking  out 
at  the  gathering  cloud,  then  walking  up  to  the  fire,  he  said, 
"  There 's  a  terrible  storm  coming  up  to-night !" 

"  It 's  a  good  thing  it  held  fine  to  clear  in  the  stack,"  observed 
fanner  Smith. 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  good  thing  for  the  wheat,"  replied  William 


136  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  but  it  will  not  be  a  good  tiling  for  them  that  have  not  a  dry 
roof  over  them  to-night,  by  what  I  can  see  !" 

"  Who  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  farmer  Smith,  looking  up. 

"  Wliy,  old  Willy  Green,"  rephed  William  ;  "  I  find  he  might 
as  well  lie  in  our  fields,  and  better  under  one  of  our  hedges,  foi 
all  the  shelter  he  gets  from  that  moldy  roof  of  his  I" 

"  There 's  the  more  to  answer  for  by  them  that  sufier  it !"  ob- 
served farmer  Smith. 

"  Well,  father,  that 's  just  what  I  w^as  thinking  ;  I  don't  see 
how  we  can  suffer  him  to  lie  so  !" 

"  'Tis  his  landlord,  not  us  !"  said  farmer  Smith  ;  "  what  can  we 
do  ? — Make  a  new  roof  for  every  hard-hearted  man  that  won't 
keep  his  own  tenants  dry  ? — that 's  not  my  idea  of  charity  1" 

*'  No,  father,  but  there  's  that  old  tarpauling  lying  down  in  the 
stack-yard,  if  we  were  to  draw  that  over  the  roof,  he  would  lie 
as  dry  as  w^e  do." 

"  And  I  should  like  to  know  what  we  are  to  do  without  it  ?" 

"  Why,  you  know,  father,  we  have  housed  the  last  stack  to-day ; 
we  are  sure  not  to  want  it  before  harvest :  we  have  others,  and 
better  too,  for  the  wagons." 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  I  take  to  it,"  said  farmer  Smith  ;  "I  am  al- 
ways ready  to  give  a  trifle,  but  if  you  once  take  up  "with  lending, 
you  never  know  what 's  your  own  !" 

Impatience  had  long  been  gathering  in  Mrs.  Smith's  face,  and 
at  these  last  words  she  broke  silence,  "Yes,  Mr.  Smith,  that 's  all 
the  difference  !  you  are  always  for  giving,  giving,  giving,  till  no 
one  knows  the  end  of  it !  I  say,  let  them  earn  an  honest  penny 
that  may  do  them  some  good,  instead  of  all  your  g-ivnngs,  or 
lend  them  a  bit  if  they  be  hard  pressed,  and  let  them  w^ork  it 
out ;  but  no,  you  will  always  be  giving,  and  taking  out  the 
little  spirit  that  is  in  them  ;  and  now,  when  an  old  tarpauling 
lies  down  in  the  yard,  you  won't  let  the  boy  roof  over  the  best 


p.  186. 


^  ^  of -f*^^ 


MINISTERliJG     CHILDREK  137 

man  in  the  parish,  and  the  oldest  too,  because  you  will  stand  out 
against  lending  !  it 's  too  much  for  me,  Mr.  Smith,  I  declare  !" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  are  right,"  replied  farmer  Smith,  in  a 
grave  low  tone  ;  "  I  won't  stand  against  it,  boy."  William  was 
sorry  for  his  mother's  rough  words,  but  he  could  not  say  any 
thing,  so  he  hastened  off  to  Jem,  who  was  watching  for  the 
fii'st  sound  of  the  latch  of  the  back  kitchen  door,  and  off  set 
William  and  Jem,  hastening  off  together  with  the  tarpauling 
between  them  ;  they  laid  it  down  at  old  Willy's  door  till  they 
returned,  each  with  a  thatcher's  ladder,  and  then  by  climbing 
arid  scrambling,  and  stretching  and  pulling,  the  old  roof  was 
covered  over,  the  covering  made  fast  by  the  strings  at  its  cor- 
ners— and  now  the  storm  might  come,  old  Willy  would  sleep 
dry  beneath  it. 

Herbert  was  leaning  back  on  a  sofa  in  the  drawing-room, 
while  his  sister  played  upon  her  harp  ;  a  book  was  in  his  hand, 
but  he  was  not  reading,  his  thoughts  were  with  old  Willy ;  a 
servant  entered  and  asked  of  Herbert,  "  Can  you  be  spoken  with 
to-night,  sir  ?" 

Herbert  spi'ang  up  and  went  out ;  Jem  stood  in  the  hall.  "  I 
beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  Jem,  "  I  thought  maybe  you  would  like  to 
know  we  have  roofed  it  in  as  dry  as  dust !" 

"  Has  Mr.  Sturgeon  been  there,  then  ?"  said  Herbert. 

"No,  sir,  to  my  thinking  he  is  best  away  ;  there  are  some  that 
seem  to  have  no  good  to  bring  with  them  when  they  do  come  ! 
but  Master  William  has  roofed  it  all  over  with  an  old  tarpauling 
from  the  farm.  Daddy's  as  pleased  as  any  thing ;  he  says  he  shall 
be  lying  awake  to  feel  the  comfort  of  it !" 

"  How  came  you  to  think  of  that  ?"  asked  Herbert,  in  delighted 
surpnse  at  the  work  already  done. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  saw  the  old  tarpauling  lie,  and  then  the  thought 
came  to  me,  but  Master  William  it  was  that  gained  it," 


138  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Herbert  wea  t  back  with  bis  brightest  smile,  "  0  Mary,  it 's 
done,  it 's  done  !" 

"  What  is  done  ?"  asked  Miss  Clifford. 

"  Why,  old  Willy's  roof  all  covered  over  as  dry  as  possible  ! 
Jem  and  young  Smith  have  covered  it  over  with  an  old  tar- 
pauling  !"  His  sister  smiled  and  said,  "  Then  we  have  seen  that 
the  end  is  good  !"  And  with  Herbert  still  leaning  at  her  bide, 
she  sang  to  her  harp  a  psalm  of  thanksgiving. 

"  Papa,"  said  Herbert,  after  a  while,  "  I  don't  see  that  money 
is  of  much  use  in  charity,  at  least  I  don't  find  it  so  !" 

"  Wait  till  the  call  for  it  comes,  my  boy,  as  sooner  or  later  it 
is  sure  to  come,  and  then  give  it  freely.  The  mistake  is,  when 
we  think  money  can  do  everything  !  it  has  its  distinct  work  like 
other  creatures  of  God,  and  when  we  apply  it  amiss  we  do  haim 
with  it  instead  of  good." 

That  night  as  farmer  Smith  read  in  his  mother's  Bible,  the 
words  met  his  eye,  "  Do  good,  and  lend,  hoping  for  nothing 
again ;  and  your  reward  shall  be  great,  and  ye  shall  be  the 
children  of  the  Highest :  for  He  is  kind  to  the  unthankful  and 
the  evil."  Luke  vi.  35.  And  the  peaceful  sense  of  its  being  a  Di- 
vine command  he  had  obeyed,  came  down  into  farmer  Smith's 
heart,  and  the  oil  and  wine  of  the  living  Word  poured  into  and 
healed  the  wound  rough  words  had  left.  From  that  day,  far- 
mer Smith  was  as  willing  to  lend  as  to  give,  when  his  judg- 
ment approved  of  the  case. 

Sweet  was  the  slumber  of  the  ministering  boys  that  night — 
!nthin  the  Hall,  the  farm-house,  and  the  cottage  ;  and  sweet  the 
ank  between  them  !  And  pleasant  thoughts  smoothed  the  old 
man's  pillow ;  as,  dry  and  warm  through  the  youthful  love  of 
earth,  he  turned  to  rest  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Eternal, 
turned  to  the  well-spring  whence  those  bright  and  blessed  rills 
of  human  sympathy  had  risen  and  flowed  at  his  aged  feet. 


CHAPTER    X. 

"Let  mne  outcasts  dwell  with  thee.— Be  thou  a  covert  to  them  from  the  fcoe  at 
the  spoiler." — Isaiah  xvi.  4. 

rpHE  spnng  advanced  with  silent  step  and  hand  unseen,  strew- 
-*-  ing  the  earth  with  beauty.  Woods,  pastures,  lanes, — all 
flower-enameled,  tempted  the  step  to  linger.  The  countless 
branches  of  the  trees — through  winter  black  and  dreary — now 
wore  their  rosy  hue,  while  the  oily  chestnut  and  the  silver  birch 
ah-eady  put  forth  their  buds  beneath  the  clear  blue  sky.  Often 
did  Herbert  tread  the  path  between  his  own  fair  mansion  and 
old  Willy's  lowly  dwelling — the  younger  and  the  elder  heart 
fust  linked  in  pure  affection's  blessed  bond.  The  old  tarpauling 
covered  the  roof ;  and  Herbert  had,  with  unspeakable  satisfac- 
tion, filled  up,  with  his  own  hands,  the  hole  in  the  floor — no 
longer  needed  now. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Herbert  one  day  to  old  Willy,  as  he  looked 
over  the  page  of  the  open  Bible  from  the  low  stool  on  which  he 
sat,  "  I  wonder  why  you  are  so  often  reading  those  words  about 
the  mansions  in  heaven,  when  you  know  them  all  by  heart  ?  T 
should  be  for  reading  what  I  did  not  know." 

"  Well,  master,  you  are  right  enough,  I  dare  say,  but  it  seems 
to  do  me  good  to  get  a  look  at  the  real  words  ;  it  helps  an  old 
man's  faith  ;  for  when  I  see  them,  I  say,  '  There  they  be  !'  and  I 
can  not  doubt  them.  You  see,  master,  the  thought  of  a  mansion 
in  heaven  for  an  old  sinner  like  me,  and  my  Lord  gone  to  pre- 
pare it,  and  coming  back  to  take  me  to  it — why,  it 's  all  so  wod- 


140  MINISTERING     CHILDREN 

derful :  if  I  could  not  get  a  look  at  the  words  sometimes,  I  *m 
afeard  I  should  be  just  doubting  again — though  I  pray  that  the 
good  Lord  would  keep  me  from  that !  But  it 's  wonderful  to 
come  and  see  them  all  written  there  just  when  I  want  to  be 
building  up  my  poor  faith  ;  for  then  I  know  it 's  not  man's  word, 
nor  the  thought  of  my  old  heart,  but  the  Word  of  the  Lord  that 
endureth  for  ever !" 

Wlien  the  black  thorn's  thin  chilly  blossoms  had  given  place 
to  the  redundant  May,  scenting  the  hedges,  Miss  Clifford  was  al- 
lowed to  take  her  first  drive.  Herbert  was  in  high  spirits,  and 
took  his  seat  on  the  coach-box  by  old  Jenks — whose  silent  joy 
at  driving  his  young  lady  out  again,  had  shown  itself  in  his  at- 
titude, as,  holding  reins  and  whip  in  his  right  hand,  he  had 
leaned  down  from  the  carriage-box  to  see  her  safely  seated 
within  ;  then  bowing  in  response  to  her  smile,  resumed  his  up- 
right position  ;  and  once  more,  after  many  months,  set  forth 
with  the  whole  of  his  master's  family  for  a  drive. 

They  had  not  gone  far  before  the  old  coachman  asked  Her- 
bert if  he  had  heard  the  news  about  Mr.  Sturgeon  and  old  Willy 
Green. 

"  No ;  what  news  ?"  asked  Herbert,  eagerly  looking  up,  all 
impatience,  into  the  old  coachman's  deliberate  face. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  must  have  heard  it ;  it 's  been  all  the 
talk  of  the  village  since  yesterday  !  They  say  that  Mr.  Sturgeon 
has  bought  that  place  of  Squire  Crawford's  for  his  country- 
house,  and  they  say  that  he  and  the  bailder,  in  whose  hands  it 
^7as,  could  n't  come  to  terms,  and  Mr.  Sturgeon  would  not  go 
fiom  his  offer,  nor  the  builder  from  his  price,  and  so  Mr.  Stur- 
geon threw  in  that  plot  of  old  Willy's,  and  by  that  got  the 
place  some  pounds  less,  instead  of  more  than  he  first  ofiered. 
The  builder  was  over  yesterday  at  old  Willy's — no  one  knew  a 
word  about  it  till  then  !" 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  141 

**  It  can  not  be  true,  Jenks  !     I  do  not  believe  it !" 

"  All,  it 's  too  true,  for  all  that !"  replied  Jenks,  shaking  his 
head  ;  "  and  it  don't  surprise  me,  for  there  's  something  belongs 
to  money,  that,  when  once  you  get  the  love  of  it,  there  's  no 
saying  what  you  will  stop  at !  They  tell  me  old  Willy  never 
spoke  so  much  as  a  word ;  it  seemed  to  turn  him  to  stone  to 
find  he  v/as  sold  out  in  that  way." 

"  But  do  you  think  the  builder  will  turn  him  out  ?" 

"  O  yes ;  he  has  served  him  a  notice  to  quit  in  a  month,  and 
they  say  it  will  all  be  pulled  down  in  another  month.  Poor  old 
fellow,  it  will  be  the  finish  of  him  here,  and  then  he  will  be  bet- 
ter off,  and  out  of  the  way  of  them  that  can  trouble  him  now ; 
that 's  my  belief !" 

"  Stop,  Jenks,  and  let  me  get  inside.  I  declare  I  will  tell 
papa  this  moment !" 

"  No,  sir,  not  for  the  world,"  replied  Jenks,  driving  faster ; 
"  if  my  young  mistress  were  to  hear  of  it,  it  would  do  her  more 
harm  than  a  hundred  drives  could  do  good  !" 

"  Then  stop  at  the  pond,  Jenks,  and  I  will  run  across  to  old 
Willy's." 

"  Ah,  but  then,"  replied  Jenks,  "  I  '11  be  bound  she  '11  guess 
there  's  something  amiss  !" 

"  No,  I  will  not  say  a  word  about  it,  but  I  must  and  will  go  ; 
and  if  you  do  not  stop  at  the  pond,  I  shall  get  down  without !" 

Jenks  knew  his  young  master  too  well,  not  to  think  it  better 
to  pull  up  when  the  pond  was  reached.  Herbert,  faithful  to  his 
engagement,  only  looked  into  the  carriage,  sajring  cheerfully, 
"  I  want  to  run  across  to  old  Willy's.'*  And  then,  without  giv- 
ing time  for  any  inquiries,  he  leaped  the  stile,  bounded  over  the 
meadow,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight.  But  a  little  further,  and 
his  step  grew  slower ;  for  over  his  young  spirit  passed  the  awe  of 
a  first  contact  with  overwhelming  grief.*    "  How  will  it  be  when 


142  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

I  gel  to  tim  ?"  thought  Herbert.  "  I  can  not  comfort  hmi  T  A 
shudder  passed  over  that  bright  young  spirit,  and  the  boy  looked 
along  another  path  that  led  to  his  home,  and  stood  a  moment  in 
doubt  which  to  take.  Then  a  thought  of  that  ministering  angel 
he  had  seen  in  his  dream  watching  over  old  Willy,  came  back 
to  his  mind,  and  he  thought  he  would  venture  to  go  and  see 
what  the  love  of  God  could  do  for  old  Willy  now. 

The  afternoon  sunshine  of  the  sweet  spring-day  was  warm  and 
blight,  but  the  cottage-door  was  shut.  Herbert  knocked  and 
waited — no  answer  came  ;  so,  with  a  beating  heart,  he  opened 
the  door,  and  looked  in.  There,  at  the  further  side  of  the  room, 
old  Willy  knelt — his  hands  clasped  on  the  top  of  his  stick  ;  he 
had  not  heard  the  knock,  he  did  not  hear  the  boy's  gentle  step, 
nor  know  that  any  one  was  there,  till  Herbert,  having  quietly 
shut  to  the  door  and  laid  his  hat  on  the  table,  knelt  down  by 
old  Willy's  side,  and  said  in  his  heart,  "  0  God !  comfort  old 
Willy !"  The  old  man  turned  his  pale  and  tearless  face  and 
looked  some  moments  in  silent  wonder  on  the  boy,  then  slowly 
said,  "  Why,  I  had  but  then  begun  to  ask  the  God  above  to 
send  you  to  the  sight  of  my  eyes,  before  they  be  too  dim  to 
have  the  sight  of  you  any  more  !" 

"  Then,  Willy,  you  need  not  pray  for  that,  because  I  am 
come.  I  am  going  to  stay  and  sit  with  you,  and  God  will  com- 
fort you,  dear  Willy  ;  I  know  he  will !" 

The  old  man  made  no  answer ;  he  seemed  like  one  stunned 
with  a  sudden  blow ;  he  knelt  on  with  an  almost  vacant  express- 
ion a  few  moments,  then  said,  "  If  you  be  come,  why,  then,  I 
must  thank  the  God  above  who  sent  you  so  soon  !"  Herbert 
waited  while  Willy  gave  thanks,  and  then  the  old  man  rose 
slowly  and  with  difficulty,  and  made  his  way  back  to  his  arm- 
chair. Herbert  took  the  low  stool  and  sat  down  by  his  sidtj, 
but  knew  not  what  to  say. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  143 

After  a  short  silence,  old  Willy  looked  round  and  said,  "  They 
are  going  to  take  the  old  place  from  me ;  they  say  I  must  leave 
it ;  but  I  don't  seem  to  kaow  one  thing  from  another,  nor  what 
will  be  done,  and  my  sight  is  turned  dim,  and  I  can't  see  the 
words  of  the  Book,  so  now  I  can't  seem  to  lay  hold  on  any 
thing,  only  I  have  a  hope  that  the  good  Lord  above,  who  came 
down  to  save  me,  will  keep  hold  of  me  still — is  not  that  right  ?" 

"Yes,  Willy,  quite  right.  Once,  do  you  know,  Willy,  it 
looked  quite  dark  to  me ;  I  could  not  see  a  way  out  of  my 
trouble  anv  how,  and  then  I  prayed,  and  then  I  did  see  a 


"  Yes,  sure  enough,"  replied  old  Willy,  "  prayer  will  show  the 
way  any  day  !  don't  I  see  the  way — and  is  n't  it  just  my  Sa- 
viour? Sure  enough  He  says,  'I  am  the  way,'  and  now  it 
comes  to  me,  how  she  I  call  my  blessed  angel  came  to  me 
one  day,  and  read  me  a  rare  beautiful  story  about  the  dove 
flying  back  to  the  ark,  because  there  was  no  rest  in  all  the 
world  for  the  sole  of  his  foot !  I  have  a  bit  of  a  mark  tucked 
in  against  it,  for  I  have  looked  on  it  times  and  often  since 
then,  but  my  eyes  don't  seem  as  if  they  could  get  hold  of  the 
words  to-day." 

"  Shall  I  read  it  to  you,  Willy  1"  asked  Herbert. 

"  Ah,  do,  master,  if  you  will  be  so  good,  it  will  come  back  to 
me  then !" 

Old  Willy  clasped  his  hands  upon  his  stick,  and  listened 
while  Herbert  read  the  eighth  chapter  of  the  book  of  Genesis, 
where  the  mark  was  tucked  in.  He  listened  to  the  boy's  clear 
voice  breathing  the  living  Word.  Well  might  the  old  man  feel 
like  the  desolate  bird  on  the  wide  waste  of  the  unstable  waters  ! 
But  at  the  words  that  told  of  the  dove's  return  and  shelter  in 
the  ark,  his  stricken  heart  revived,  he  raised  to  Heaven  his  own 
bright  smile,  and  when  the  chapter  was  ended,  he  said  at  one«. 


l44  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Ah,  I  mind  it  all  now  ;  it  all  comes  back  to  me,  how  she  rea« 
it  just  like  that,  and  then  she  said  to  me,  'Willy,  there's  no 
rest  but  in  our  Saviour ;  we  must  be  like  the  dove  and^  fly  to 
Him,  and  He  will  put  out  His  hand  and  take  us  in  !'  I  mind 
it  now  how  earnest  she  said  it,  and  sure  enough  I  have  never 
seen  the  ring-dove  cross  the  sky  at  evening,  but  I  have  thought 
of  that,  and  prayed  in  my  heart  a  prayer  that  I  might  get  to 
my  Saviour,  and  that  He  would  be  pleased  to  reach  out  His 
hand  and  take  me  in.  And  now  I  see  it  plain — how  I  am  just 
like  the  poor  lost  bird — there  's  no  rest  left  on  this  side  the  grave 
for  the  soles  of  my  old  feet ;  so  I  must  only  be  looking  after  my 
Saviour,  and  then,  when  it  pleases  Him,  why.  He  will  reach 
forth  His  hand  and  take  me  in  !" 

Herbert  left  the  old  man  in  the  light  of  the  faith  his  aid 
had  helped  to  rekindle.  But  his  heavy  tidings  spread  sadness 
in  his  home,  and  left  a  flush  of  deeper  crimson  on  his  sister's 
eheek. 

"  Can  you  think  of  nothing,  Mary,  that  can  be  done  for  old 
Willy  ?"  asked  Herbert,  as  he  wished  her  good  night. 

"  I  can  think  only  of  One,  dearest  Herbert ;  I  know  that 
nothing  is  impossible  with  God,  and  that  He  loves  old  Willy 
better  than  we  do  !" 

While  Herbert  was  in  his  room  that  evening,  the  thought 
crossed  his  mind  that  he  had  not  told  old  Willy  of  his  sister's 
drive  ;  it  must  surely  comfort  him,  he  thought,  to  hear  she  had 
been  out,  and  might  soon  call  on  him.  He  treasured  up  this 
piece  of  good  tidings  as  the  only  earthly  comfort  he  could 
find,  and  making  a  desperate  effort  the  next  morning,  he  fixed 
his  attention  on  his  lessons,  with,  as  few  thoughts  of  old  Willy 
as  possible  ;  and  having  succeeded  in  accomplishing  his  tasks  to 
his  tutor's  satisfaction,  he  set  off*,  as  soon  as  he  was  free  again, 
for  old  Willy's  cottage.     He  found  the  old  man  sitting  calmlv 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  145 

in  his  chair,  his  Bible  open  on  the  table  ;  but  he  was  not  read- 
ing. 

"  O,  Willy,  only  think,  I  did  not  tell  you  yesterday,  my  sibcer 
has  been  out  for  a  drive,  and  she  will  soon  come  and  see  you !" 

At  these  words  the  old  man  burst  into  tears. 

''  Why,  Willy  !  I  thought  that  would  make  you  glad  ?" 

But  the  old  man  only  wept' on ;  the  frozen  fountain  of  his  tears 
had  melted  at  this  touch,  and  the  pent-up  torrent  flowed — he 
wept  and  sobbed  till  Herbert  was  terrified. 

"Willy,  why  do  you  cry  so  ?  Is  it  because  they  are  going  to 
turn  you  out  of  your  home  ?" 

"  O,  master,"  said  old  Willy,  at  last,  "  't  is  a  great  sin  to  fret 
against  the  will  of  God,  but  it  came  upon  me  so  sudden  !  'T  is 
the  very  thing  I  have  been  thinking  upon  so  long  and  praying 
for  day  and  night — tc  8e<i  her  blessed  feet  come  in,  and  heai*  her 
tongue  again,  and  now  't  is  come — but  not  for  me !" 

"  Yes,  it  will  be  for  you,  Willy  !" 

"  No,  master,  no,  they  are  going  to  take  all  my  quiet  from  me, 
and  an  old  man  like  me  that 's  lived  so  long  a  time  alone — why, 
if  other  folk  were  by,  I  should  not  so  much  as  know  the  words 
she  said  ;  it 's  no  more  use  for  me  !  O,  I  wish  I  might  go  to  my 
grave  before  they  take  my  quiet  from  me !  I  shall  never  know 
the  words  I  read  or  hear  when  other  folk  come  crowding  by,  and 
then,  may  be,  I  shall  forget  it  all  again.  O,  if  I  might  but  go, 
now  while  I  have  it  in  my  heart,  before  I  have  clean  lost  it  all !" 

Herbert  stood  in  a  child's  despair  ;  his  cheek  was  pale  and  hia 
heart  faint ;  he  knew  not  what  to  say,  but  he  thought  perhaps 
God's  Word  might  still  have  power  to  comfort.  He  looked 
down  anxiously  upon  the  open  page  ;  it  was  the  well-worn  leaf 
that  told  of  the  mansions  in  Heaven.  "  That  will  do,"  thought 
Herbert,  '•'  if  any  thing  will !"  So,  looking  up,  he  said,  "  Willy, 
you  listen  to  me,  I  am  going  to  read  !"    Then  with  a  s»ow,  diff- 


146  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

tinct  utterance,  he  read,  "  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled  ;  ye 
believe  in  God,  believe  also  in  me.  In  my  Father's  house  are 
many  mansions ;  if  it  were  not  so,  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go 
to  prepare  a  place  for  you.  And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for 
you,  I  will  come  again  and  receive  you  unto  myself ;  that  where 
I  am,  there  ye  may  be  also."  And  as  the  boy  read — the  joyful 
sound  woke  up  the  old  man's  smile  again — twice  over  Herbert 
read  the  life-giving  assurance,  and  then'  old  Willy  said,  "  'T  is  all 
there,  then  !  just  as  I  used  to  see  it !  I  have  been  trying  all  day, 
and  could  not  get  a  sight  of  it,  and  I  thought  it  was  all  going 
from  me,  but  now  I  can  find  it 's  all  there  for  me  still,  and  sure 
enough  I  must  be  getting  ready  for  Him  that 's  preparing  a 
home  for  me  above,  and  not  a  fretting  for  this !"  And  the 
light  and  love  of  Heaven  drank  up  the  tears  of  earth,  and  Her- 
bert saw  the  old  man's  smile  still  beaming  on  his  face  when  he 
looked  back  at  him  from  the  cottage  door,  as  he  left  for  his  home. 

But  the  sense  of  the  old  man's  sorrow  had  sunk  into  the  heart 
of  the  child,  and  he  walked  slowly  homeward.  At  last  a 
thought  sprang  up  in  his  mind,  then  a  resolve,  and  with  the  re- 
solve his  step  grew  quicker  and  more  decided  than  childhood's 
is  wont  to  be.     On  his  return  home  he  went  at  once  to  his  father. 

"  Papa,  I  want  to 'speak  to  you  ;  I  can  not  be  happy  without 
doing  something  to  keep  old  Willy's  quiet  for  him.  Papa,  I 
think  he  will  soon  die  if  he  is  taken  into  a  heap  of  people :  he 
eays  he  can  not  understand  what  he  reads  or  hears  when  he  is 
not  alone,  and  all  his  comfort  comes  from  his  Bible — he  says  he 
shall  lose  it  all,  papa,  when  he  loses  his  quiet ;  and  he  wished 
he  might  die  now  while  he  had  it  still  in  his  heart !" 

"The  poor  old  man's  trouble  is  great,"  replied  Mr.  Clifford 
"  and  I  don't  wonder  that  he  is  overwhelmed  at  the  thought  of 
the  change ;  but  the  same  Holy  Spirit  who  puts  good  things 
into  our  hearts  when  we  are  alone,  is  able  to  do  it  no  less  in  tho 


MINISTERING     CHILDRE>  147 

midst  of  a  crowd ;  and  even  if  we  did  lose  the  recollection  of 
the  holy  words  we  love  more  than  any  thing,  our  God  and  Sa- 
viour would  not  the  less  remember  us." 

"  But  old  Willy  wont  know  that,  papa  ;  if  I  tell  him,  he  will 
forget  it  again,  and  then  all  his  comfort  will  be  gone  !  and,  papa, 
shall  I  tell  you  what  I  have  been  thinking  1" 

"Well,  what,  my  boy?" 

"  Why,  there  are  some  verses  in  the  Gospel  of  St.  John  that 
old  Willy  is  always  thinking  about,  only  he  could  not  remember 
them  to-day  till  I  read  them  to  him,  about  our  Saviour  being 
gone  to  prepare  a  place  for  him  in  Heaven,  and  coming  back  to 
take  him  to  it :  and  I  have  been  thinking,  papa,  that  when  our 
Saviour  comes  back  for  old  Willy,  if  He  finds  we  have  let 
him  be  taken  away  where  all  his  comfort  will  be  gone.  He  will 
not  be  pleased  with  us  ?"  Herbert's  father  remained  silent.  Her- 
bert waited  a  minute,  and  then  went  on,  "  You  see,  papa,  it  says 
in  the  Epistle  of  St.  James,  that  if  poor  people  be  destitute,  and 
we  speak  well  to  them,  but  don't  give  them  what  is  needful — it 
says,  '  What  doth  it  profit  V  " 

"  How  do  you  mean,  that  we  could  give  old  Willy  what  is 
needful  to  his  comfort  now  ?"  asked  Mr.  Clifford. 

"  Because,  papa,  it  is  to  lose  all  his  quiet,  and  his  reading,  and 
his  thoughts,  that  makes  old  Willy  most  unhappy  ;  and  you 
know,  papa,  what  a  great  deal  of  land  we  have  ;  why  there  is  all 
this  great  park!  And  if  I  might  have  just  one  little  corner  of 
it — any  where,  or  of  some  field — just  any  place,  then  I  could 
build  a  little  house  on  it ;  one  room  would  do  for  old  Willy  ; 
and  I  have  two  sovereigns  and  half-a-crown,  and  some  shillings 
besides  !  Do  you  think  you  could  let  me  have  a  little  piece  of 
land,  papa  ?" 

"  How  much  do  you  suppose  it  would  cost  to  build  this  littk 
cottage  you  talk  of  ?"  asked  Mr.  Cliftbrd. 


148  MINISTERING     CHILDREN, 

"  I  don't  know,  papa,  perhaps  a  great  deal !  I  could  help 
make  it,  I  know  I  could ;  and  I  would  sell  Ruby  to  build  it, 
and  do  without  a  groom — Jenks  would  see  to  Araby's  being 
looked  after.  I  would  part  with  Araby  sooner  than  have  old 
WiUy  die  in  that  way !  Jenks  could  be  sure  to  get  him  a  good 
master" — and  the  tears  of  minghng  feelings  gathered  in  Her- 
bert's eyes — "  would  not  that 'do,  papa  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed  it  would,  my  boy,  less  than  that,  I  hope." 

"  O  then,  papa,  do  you  think  you  will  let  me  build  it  ?" 

"  I  will  certainly  think  it  over,  and  try  to  decide  on  what  may 
seem  best.  I  do  not  refuse  your  petition — God  forbid  I  should ; 
but  I  must  take  a  little  time  to  consider  what  can  best  be  done." 

And  so  the  weight  of  despair  was  lifted  at  once  from  the 
child's  young  heart,  and  his  buoyant  spirits  rose  again  with  the 
chastened  brightness  only  gathered  by  those  who  tread  the  path 
of  sympathy  and  love.  And  now  he  went  day  by  day  with 
cheerful  step  to  see  old  Willy  ;  he  had  learned  how  to  refresh 
the 'weary  soul,  and  replenish  the  sorrowful  soul — even  from  the 
well  of  the  Living  Word ;  and  now  he  would  open  the  Book  at 
some  one  of  the  many  marks  tucked  in,  and  the  attempt  never 
failed  to  brighten  the  old  man's  eyes  and  lips  with  the  smile  of 
joy  and  peace  in  believing.  Meanwhile  old  Willy,  reheved  by 
the  tears  he  had  shed  at  thoughts  of  hia  lady's  visit,  began  to 
recover  more  use  of  his  aged  senses,  and  could  manage  to  make 
out  all  the  most  familiar  passages  of  Holy  Scripture,  and  ho 
bowed  in  meek  submission  to  whatever  might  befall,  while  he 
tried  to  set  his  affections  more  entirely  on  things  above,  and  not 
on  things  on  the  earth. 

"Herbert,  I  want  you,"  said  Mr.  Clifford,  one  morning  not 
many  days  after  the  conversation  about  the  cottage.  Herbert 
ran  from  the  lawn  to  his  father's  study. 

"  There,  I  have  considered  y->ur  request,  and  I  now  give  you 


MINISTERING    CHILDREN.  149 

the  title  deeds,  by  wMcli  I  make  you  sole  possesscir  of  a  piece 
of  land  suitable  to  your  purpose ;  there  is  an  old  cottage  upon 
it,  and  I  think  you  will  find  it  better  worth  while  to  repair  than 
build ;  and  perhaps  with  a  little  of  your  father's  help,  the  ponies 
may  not  have  to  go  !" 

"0,  papa!  have  you  done  it,  then?"  asked  Herbert,  taking 
the  parchment,  and  looking  eagerly  upon  it.  "  What  does  it 
mean,  papa  ?  I  can  not  understand  it :  it  says,  *  Roodes'  Plot !' 
I  thought  Roodes'  Plot  was  where  old  Willy  lives  now  V 

"  So  it  is,"  replied  Mr.  Clifford,  "  will  not  that  do  as  well  as 
any  other  ?" 

"  Have  you  bought  old  Willy's  house  for  me,  papa  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  the  builder,  for  you,  with  all  that  belongs  to  it,  ex- 
cept old  Willy,  who  is  not  to  be  bought  or  sold — ^but  he  is  to 
be  kept,  I  suppose,  if  you  wish  to  detain  him,  as  your  tenant !" 

The  cheek  of  the  ministering  boy  turned  pale  with  emotion, 
he  threw  his  arms  round  his  father's  neck,  he  did  not  speak,  he 
did  not  weep,  the  clinging  clasp  of  those  young  arras  alone  ex- 
pressed that  moment's  unutterable  joy.  At  length  he  said, 
"  Papa,  did  it  cost  you  a  gi-eat  deal !'' 

"  Not  so  much  as  I  have  spent,  many  times  over,  on  my  own 
pleasure  ;  not  so  much  as  the  quiet  is  worth  to  old  Willy ;  and 
not  so  much  as  I  would  gladly  consecrate  in  the  service  of  that 
Saviour,  who,  I  trust,  is  preparing  a  home  for  me  and  mine  in 
Heaven,  and  who  has  said,  '  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto 
one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto 
me.' " 

Herbert  left  his  father's  side,  but  O !  how  strong  the  bond  of 
love  and  reverence  with  which  his  father's  act  had  bound  him  1 
His  father  had  met  him  in  his  heart's  first  gushing  sympathy 
with  sorrow,  met  him  and  filled  his  hand  with  a  gift,  the  price- 
less woHb  of  which  th<    child  was  prepared  to  estimate :  the 


150  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

occasion  had  arisen,  and  lie  had  seen  his  parent  carry  out  to  the 
full  that  parent's  own  expressed  principle — money  at  length 
had  been  needed,  and  it  had  been  freely  poured  forth.  Such 
moments  as  those  then  passed  through  by  the  boy  have  almost 
a  creative  power  to  enlarge  the  soul  and  ennoble  the  character. 

"  0  !  mamma,  O !  Mary,"  exclaimed  Herbert,  running  into  the 
drawing-room,  "  old  Willy's  house  is  mine ;  papa  has  bought  it 
for  me,  for  my  very  own,  and  I  shall  be  his  landlord  !  I  can 't 
stop  a  minute  til]  I  have  told  him."  And  off  bounded  the  boy 
— ^never  foot  bore  tidings  more  swiftly  ;  no  pause  was  made  till, 
breathless  and  panting,  he  stopped  at  old  Willy's  door.  It  was 
no  time  to  delay  for  a  knock  of  inquiry  ;  he  burst  in  at  once. 
"  0  AVilly  !  Willy !  you  will  never  have  to  leave  your  home  ; 
papa  has  bought  it  all  for  me,  and  I  shall  be  your  landlord,  and 
make  you  so  comfortable  !     Won't  you  be  happy  now  ?" 

Old  AVilly  was  in  the  act  of  crossing  the  uneven  floor  of  his 
room  when  Herbert  burst  in  with  the  tidings  of  joy,  and  now 
he  stood  fixed  to  the  spot,  where  Herbert  first  arrested  his  at- 
tention, and  looking  up  with  a  bewildered  expression,  replied 
only,  "  Sir  !" 

"  Can  not  you  understand  me,  Willy  ?"  asked  Herbert,  and 
then  with  slow  utterance,  he  shouted,  "  Papa  has  bought  youi 
house  and  given  it  to  me,  and  I  shall  never  let  you  leave  it  all 
your  life,  but  I  shall  be  your  landlord,  and  make  you  so  com- 
fortable !     Can  not  you  understand  me  now  ?" 

"  Ah,  master,  I  be  afeared  it 's  but  a  dream  after  all,  and  I  '11 
be  a  waking  soon,  and  then  it  will  be  gone  !" 

"  No  Willy,  you  are  not  asleep,  you  know  me  1  look  here, 
it 's  I,  Willy,  I  have  run  so  hard  to  tell  you  !  look,  I  will  shake 
hands  with  you.     Don't  you  see  it 's  all  true  V 

"  What,  then,  am  I  to  stay  in  the  old  place  after  all  ?" 

"  Yes,  Willy,  and  I  am  to  be  youi"  landlord,  and  I  shall  make 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  151 

you  SO  comfortable,  and  you  shall  not  pay  me  anj  rent,  and 
then  you  can  have  plenty  of  food  !  Papa  will  not  mix  d,  I  know 
— though  he  is  always  thinking  of  what  will  be  just  to  others, 
but  every  body  knows  you  have  paid  good  rent  for  a  bad  house, 
and  so  you  shall  have  it  all  back  in  a  good  house  and  no  rent. 
Won't  you  be  happy  now,  Willy  ?  O  !  I  hope  you  will  live  a 
very  long  time,  that  I  may  take  care  of  you  !" 

"  Praise  the  Lord !"  exclaimed  old  Willy,  as  he  lifted  his 
hand  and  eyes  to  heaven.  "  Who  could  have  thought  of  this  ?" 
And  then,  making  his  way  to  his  chair,  he  added,  "  Sure,  'tis 
He  that 's  preparing  a  place  for  me  in  heaven,  has  let  down  a 
drop  of  His  love  into  His  young  child's  heart,  to  keep  me  a 
place  on  earth.     Who  could  have  thought  it  ?" 

Herbert  ran  back  to  be  in  time  for  his  tutor.  And  wnen  ol<i 
Willy  had  mused  a  httle,  and  ofi'ered  up  his  fervent  thanksgiv- 
ing, he  took  his  stick  and  went  round  his  garden,  and  Looked 
again  on  every  aged  tree  and  young  green  plant — on  which  his 
eyes  had  never  rested  since  the  hour  in  which  he  heard  that  he 
must  leave  them. 

How  bright  the  summer  work,  how  sweet  the  labor  that 
opened  on  young  Herbert  now  !  How  dear  was  every  inch  of 
this  his  landed  possession  ! — Yet  was  old  Willy  always  the  first 
thought  in  all.  And  now  workmen  were  summoned  ;  brick- 
layers' men  began  with  walls  and  floor.  All  had  to  be  so  man- 
aged, in  the  warm  summer-time,  so  that  old  Willy  should  not 
have  to  sleep  away  a  single  night.  The  walls  were  of  brick 
and  still  firm,  white-washing  and  a  little  repair  would  do  for 
them ;  but  the  floor  was,  as  Herbert  said,  "  about  as  bad  as  a 
floor  could  be."  It  was  all  laid  fresh  with  the  smoothest  bricks, 
and  Herbert,  under  the  bricklayer's  directions,  must  needs  lay 
the  four  bricks  himself  under  old  Willy's  feet  beside  the  fire. 
Tlien  came  the  thatching,  and  piles  of  the  brightest  and  firmest 


J62  MINISTERING    CHILDREN. 

straws  wore  laid  beside  the  cottage  walls ;  and  the  thatcliera 
came  ;  and  the  villagers  stopped  as  they  passed,  with  a  lingering 
look  of  surprise  and  pleasure,  and  bowed  with  a  kindling  smile 
to  the  young  Squire ;  and  the  village-children  gathered  in  a 
group  outside — to  see  the  old  house  done  up  at  last !  and  Jem, 
when  his  sheep  were  folded,  thought  not  of  supper-time ;  but, 
kneeling  beside  the  cottage,  he  laid  the  wet  straws  side  by  side, 
ready  for  the  thatcher's  hand ;  and  Herbert  must  needs  climb 
the  ladder,  and  stuff  in  one  handful,  and  smooth  it  down,  and 
fix  in  the  twig^ — to  help  at  last  to  roof  old  Willy  over  warm  ! 
and  when  Jem  was  forced  to  be  off  the  next  summer  day,  and 
the  work  still  in  hand,  young  Smith  took  his  place  ;  while  old 
Willy  sat  calmly  within — one  while  lost  in  his  Book,  reading 
again  of  the  dove,  and  thinking  how  even  he  had  an  ark  found 
him  on  earth ;  then  on  to  the  mansions  in  heaven,  where  his 
heart  had  so  long  had  its  home ;  and  then,  falling  gently  asleep, 
he  would  rest  and  dream  of  the  faces  and  tones  of  love  that  met 
his  waking  senses.  And  Herbert  would  call  and  say,  "  Only  see 
how  nice  it  looks,  Willy  !"  And  the  old  man  would  answer, 
"  'Tis  wholly  a  wonder  to  see  the  old  place,  and  I  to  stand  in  it 
after  all !"  And  once  he  added,  "  To  my  thinking,  'tis  making 
wholly  fit  for  a  king !"  And  Herbert  remembered  the  words 
that  tell  how  all  such  as  old  Willy  are  "  kings  unto  God,"  and 
tlie  thought  blended  its  hallowing  awe  with  the  eagerness  of  a 
eiiild's  interest  and  feeling. 

At  last  the  house  was  finished,  and  Herbert  stood  beside  old 
Willy,  f  nd  watched  the  tarpauling  out  of  sight — carried  back 
by  faithful  Jem,  with  old  Willy's  duty,  and  Herbert's  thanks,  to 
Farmer  Smith  ;  its  friendly  shelter  being  no  longer  needed  now, 
for  it  was  vain  for  rain-drop  or  blast  of  wind  ever  to  try  again 
to  penetrate  the  roof  that  covered  old  Willy.  Then  Snowflake 
stopped  at  the  stile,  and  Herbert  led  his  sister  up  the  narrow 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  163 

path,  and  old  Willy  received  them  both.  Who  shall  tell  the  joy 
within  those  cottage  walls — the  old  man,  on  whose  face  the  teai 
and  smile  were  meeting ;  the  youthful  lady,  in  whose  eyes  the 
light  of  Heaven  already  beamed,  by  whom  the  old  man  had 
been  led  to  seek  and  find  a  home  above  ;  and  the  bright  boy, 
whose  heart  and  life  had  lent  their  aid  to  preserve  and  enrich 
with  comfort  a  home  on  earth,  where  the  old  man  might  enjoj 
rest  and  peace,  with  all  his  need  supplied ! 

And  now  came  the  garden,  every  foot  of  which  Herbert  re 
solved  should  be  turned  to  account ;  so  he  set  to  work  diligent- 
ly in  the  study  of  gardening  books ;  and  was  often  seen  deep  in 
discourse  with  Dix,  one  of  the  under-gardeners  at  the  Hall,  who 
took  a  particular  interest  in  assisting  the  young  Squire.  Hap- 
pily, Herbert's  holidays  began  early  in  the  summer,  before  the 
heat  of  the  season,  that  he  might  with  more  freedom  enjoy  ex- 
ercise ;  therefore,  he  had  leisure  now  when  he  most  needed  it 
for  the  improvement  of  his  little  estate.  The  evening  saw  him 
planning  with  Dix,  and  the  early  morning  plying  his  spade,  in- 
hahng  the  air's  first  freshness  and  the  scent  of  the  newly-turned 
earth. 

"  If  you  take  my  advice,  sir,"  said  Dix,  "  you  will  clear  out 
every  one  of  those  old  trees ;  they  are  all  past  bearing,  and  stand 
for  nothing  but  to  cumber  up  the  ground." 

"  No,  Dix,  you  do  not  understand  ;  there  is  not  a  tree  old 
Willy  did  not  plant,  or  his  father  before  him ;  I  would  not 
have  one  of  them  touched ;  why,  they  are  all  hke  friends  to  old 
Willy !" 

"  Well,  sir,  that 's  reason  enough,"  replied  Dix ;  "  there  are 
two  things  to  be  thought  of  sometimes,  I  believe,  when  one  is 
apt  to  set  to  work  upon  one." 

Herbert  was  hasting  through  the  Park  to  his  early  labor, 
the  second  morning  of  his  work  in  old  Willy's  garden,  when  at 


154  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

the  gate  he  found  the  gamekeeper's  children.  '*If  you  please,, 
sir,"  said  the  eldest,  "  father  thought  may  be  you  could  set  us  to 
work  ;  we  have  got  our  spade  and  hoe,  and  Ben  can  pick 
stones."  So  on  went  Herbert  with  his  willing  helpers,  and  the 
birds  sang  forth  their  morning  carol  over  the  boys'  young  heads, 
bowed  low  in  their  service  of  love. 

"  I  guess,  by  what  I  see,"  observed  Farmer  Smith  to  his  son 
William,  as  they  drove  home  one  afternoon  from  market,  "  I 
guess,  by  what  I  see,  that  our  young  Squire  will  be  likely  to 
understand  how  to  keep  dry  roofs  over  his  tenants  !" 

"  Ah,  and  warm  hearts  within  them,  too,"  replied  William ; 
"  I  will  answer  for  that." 

So  passed  old  Willy's  trouble,  like  a  summer-evening  storm, 
after  which  his  setting  sun  shone  out  in  clearer  brightness  thai 
before. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

Tho  U«r  of  the  Lord  is  perfect,  converting  the  soul.  The  statutes  of  the  Lord  are 
right,  rejoicing  the  heart  More  to  be  desired  are  they  than  gold,  yea  th»n 
much  fine  gold.  Sweeter  also  tlian  honey  and  the  honeycomb." — Psalm  xix. 
T,  8,  10. 

rpHERE  came  a  bright  morning  in  June,  when  the  farm  was  aV 
-^  astir  with  even  more  than  usual  Hfe.  The  dewy  mist ."  that 
tarrieth  not  for  man,  nor  waiteth  for  the  sons  of  men,"  was  lav- 
ing every  leaf  and  flower,  and  nourishing  the  ripening  corn — 
first  of  all  creation  in  the  day's  work  of  blessing,  it  hung  be- 
tween earth  and  sky,  preparing  every  herb  and  tree  to  meet 
uninjured  the  sun's  noontide  ray,  from  which  the  vegetable 
world  can  seek  no  shelter ;  soft  and  cool,  it  bathed  all  nature, 
even  as  when  it  rose  in  Eden,  obedient  to  its  Maker's  v/ill,  to 
water  the  sinless  Paradise  that  God  had  made  for  man.  The 
sun  had  not  long  risen,  nor  the  birds  long  begun  their  morning 
Bong  to  greet  it ;  but  Mrs.  Smith  was  down ;  she  had  opened 
the  windows,  flung  back  the  doors,  and  seemed  intent  on  raising 
an  early  commotion,  in  order  to  the  earlier  attainment  of  after 
order  and  repose.  Ah  !  the  child  was  expected  from  school 
that  day,  and  the  mother  would  do  more  to  welcome  her  in  act 
beforehand,  than  in  word  when  ?he  came.  And  the  boys  were 
out  early,  kneeling  on  the  dewy  grass-plot  beside  the  gosset- 
lamb,  tying  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon  round  its  neck  that  had  been 
treasured  up  for  the  occasion.  And  William  came  in  to  break- 
feat,  with  his  hand  ful)  of  the  wood's  wild-flowers,  all  wet  with 


156  "  MINISTERING     CHILDKEN. 

pearly  dew ;  and  he  stuck  them  up  in  a  glass,  all  crowded  and 
pressed  together,  their  delicate  beauty  half  hidden  in  confusion ; 
but  their  witness  none  the  less  clear — their  silent  witness ,  to  a 
brother's  thoughtful  love.  The  day  wore  on,  and  Mrs.  Smith 
had  put  on  her  afternoon  gown,  and  all  the  house  was  in  after- 
noon order,  and  Molly  had  put  on  the  kettle,  and  Mrs.  Smith 
made  a  plum-cake,  the  last  time  of  baking,  for  tea  that  day 
and  now  she  looked  sometimes  from  window  and  sometimes 
from  door,  along  the  distant  road  by  which  William  in  the  gig 
would  bring  the  child  home  from  her  school. 

"  Just  you  hsten,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  I  am  sure  I  hear  them  !" 
and  Mr.  Smith  stepped  out  at  the  front-door,  and  Molly  went 
round  to  the  back,  and  the  yard-boy,  who  saw  her  watching, 
dhaded  his  eyes  and  looked  along  the  road.  Yes,  there  they 
came !  and  the  boys  ran  to  meet  them ;  and  when  the  horse 
stopped  at  the  garden-gate,  Rose  sprang  from  the  gig  into  her 
father's  arms,  then  ran  on  to  her  mother,  and  Molly  stood  smil- 
ing in  full  sight,  and  the  yard-boy  led  off  the  horse  to  the 
stable,  looking  back  as  he  went.  And  glad  was  that  evening 
meal,  for  the  sunbeam  of  the  home  had  returned. 

It  was  the  hay-time  of  the  year,  and  Rose  was  often  in  the 
meadows  among  the  haymakers.  One  day  a  woman  of  the 
name  of  Giles  said  to  another  woman  working  at  her  side — 

"  My  mother-in-law  is  very  bad  ;  I  doubt  if  she  will  ever  get 
about  again." 

Rose  heard  the  words,  and  her  ready  sympathy  was  called  forth 

"  Is  your  mother-in-law  very  ill  ?"  inquired  Rose. 

"  It  seems  mostly  weakness,"  replied  the  woman  ;  "  but  she 
can't  do  a  thing  for  herself,  and  I  don't  believe  she  ever  will 
again." 

Rose  said  no  more,  but  she  thought  of  the  poor  old  woman 
lying  weak  and  helpless,  and  she  wished  she  could  take  he' 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  151 

something  to  comfort  her ;  she  could  think  of  a  gi'eat  many 
things,. but  she  dared  not  ask  her  mother,  for  Mrs.  Smith  had 
not  spoken  to  any  of  the  old  woman's  family  for  many  months. 
The  old  woman's  name  wjis  Giles  ;  she  lived  by  herself  in  a  cot- 
tage under  the  shelter  of  a  lonely  wood,  and  her  son,  with  his 
wife  and  children,  lived  in  a  cottage  that  was  under  the  same 
roof  as  the  old  woman's.  There  were  no  other  cottages  near, 
and  the  o.d  woman's  son  had  been  convicted  of  poaching  in 
tlie  wood  behind  his  cottage.  Farmer  Smith  had  dismissed 
the  man  from  his  employ  ;  and,  if  Mrs.  Smith  had  had  her  way, 
the  whole  family  would  have  been  denied  employment  also ; 
but  farmer  Smith  refused  to  send  away  the  wife  and  children 
for  the  man's  fault,  so  they  still  worked  on  the  farm  when 
work  could  be  found  them  ;  but  Mrs.  Smith  refused  to  take  any 
notice  of  any  of  the  family.  Therefore  Rose  knew  it  was  hope- 
less to  ask  her  mother  for  any  comforts  for  widow  Giles.  But 
Rose  had  in  her  possession  a  Measured  shilling,  given  by  her 
father  in  one  of  his  visits  to  her  at  school :  she  had  thought  of 
a  great  many  things  that  might  be  bought  with  this  shilling 
when  she  went  to  the  town  with  her  father — which  she  was 
always  allowed  to  do  once  every  holiday-time  ;  but  she  had  not 
yet  decided  on  which  of  all  these  thought-of  purchases  would 
be  best ;  and  now  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  might,  with  her 
shilling,  buy  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  for  poor  widow  Giles. 
Rose  no  sooner  thought  of  this,  than  she  resolved  it  should  be 
her  final  choice.  So  she  went  off  in  search  of  William,  to 
consult  bim  as  to  how  this  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  could  be 
obtained  from  the  town.  William  told  her  that  they  were 
gomg  to  send  in  the  next  morning;  so  Rose  intrusted  him 
with  her  shilling ;  and  by  twelve  o'clock  the  next  day  Rose 
was  m  possession  of  the  tea  from  Mr.  Mansfield's  shop,  done  up 
in  its  double  paper,  c^  white  inside,  and  blue  outside.     Rose 


IdO  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

managed  to  get  it  into  her  pocket,  and  felt  a  great  deal  riclier, 
now  that  her  shilling  was  turned  into  so  much  comfort  for  the 
poor  old  woman.  But  now  Rose  wanted  to  take  it  herself,  and 
she  was  afraid  lier  mother  woulc  riot  let  her  go  to  the  cottage ; 
but  she  remembered  what  her  minister  at  school  had  said — 
"  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you."  And  she  thought  it  must 
be  right  to  go  and  see  the  poor  old  woman  ;  and  when  she  had 
asked  in  heaven,  she  got  courage  then  to  ask  on  earth.  Those 
who  go  oftenest  to  heaven  in  prayer,  are  sure  to  •  have  most 
holy  courage  on  earth.     So  after  dinner  little  Rose  said — 

"  Mother,  widow  Giles  is  very  ill ;  they  don't  think  she  will 
ever  get  about  again." 

Mrs.  Smith  only  replied,  "  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  those 
Gileses,  I  am  sure  ;  I  only  know'  if  I  had  my  way,  they  would 
never  be  at  work  on  this  farm  again  !" 

"I  thought,  mother,  I  should  like  to  go  and  ask  poor  old 
widow  Giles  how  she  is  ?" 

"  And  what  would  be  the  use  of  that  ?  she  won't  be  any  thing 
the  better  for  your  asking  how  she  is  ?" 

"  ISTo,  mother ;  only  then  she  would  know  we  did  think  about  her." 

"  Think  about  her  !"  replied  Mrs.  Smith ;  "  that's  a  family  that 
don't  deserve  thinking  about,  after  all  your  father's  done  for 
them,  and  the  man  worked  on  this  farm  from  a  boy,  and  his 
father  before  him,  and  then  he  must  turn  against  it  all,  and  go 
a-poaching !" 

"  But  if  widow  Giles  should  die,  mother,  and  we  did  not  speak 
a  word  to  her,  she  would  think  you  had  not  forgiven  her." 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  forgiveness,  I  am  sure,"  replied 
Mrs.  Smith,  "  till  people  show  a  little  sorrow  for  their  ingratitude." 

"  But,  mother,  our  minister  at  school  says,  that  it 's  when 
people  are  forgiven  that  they  are  often  most  sorry." 

"  Well,  child,  I  never  heard  such  preaching  as  you  seem  to 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN  15\f 

heal* ;  I  only  know  'tis  a  fine  thing  to  have  good  schooling  to 
help  jou  to  understand  wjiat  it  is  you  do  hear  ;  for  my  part,  I 
have  been  all  my  life  to  church,  and  I  never  understood  our 
minister's  preaching — not  to  go  on  by  it  in  that  way." 

"  I  don't  think  it 's  schooling,  mother,  makes  me  understand. 
Our  minister  does  not  preach  about  what  we  learn  at  school ;  he 
preaches  all  out  of  the  Bible,  and  so  plain  that  any  body  must 
understand  him." 

"  Well,  child,  it 's  a  fine  thing  to  understand,  let  it  be  as  it 
will ;  that 's  all  I  have  got  to  say." 

"  May  I  go  then,  mother  ?" 

"  0,  please  yourself ;  it  makes  no  difference  to  me." 

Little  Rose  set  off",  at  first  gravely  and  slowly,  under  the 
chilling  shadow  of  her  mother's  darkened  heart,  but  she  soon 
felt  again  the  sunshine  of  heavenly  truth  and  love  in  which  her 
own  young  spirit  lived,  and  then  with  quicker  step  she  climbed 
the  stiles,  passed  through  the  hay-meadows,  and  along  the  lane, 
where  the  sun  poured  his  sultry  heat  upon  her,  till  she  reached 
the  shadow  of  the  lonely  wood.  She  stood  at  the  widow's  door 
and  knocked — no  answer  came  ;  so  she  knocked  again,  then  a 
feeble,  anxious  voice  said,  "  Who  is  there  *?" 

"  It 's  me— it 's  Rose  !"  said  the  little  girl. 

"  0  dear,  I  am  so  glad  !"  said  the  poor  old  woman ;  "  but  I  'm 
locked  in  ;  they  have  got  the  key  in  the  hay-meadows." 

"  I  will  run  back  and  get  it !"  shouted  httle  Rose ;  so  back 
she  turned,  forgetful  of  the  summer's  sun,  running  fast  along 
the  high  unsheltered  lane,  back  over  the  stiles  and  through  the 
meadows,  to  where  the  women  turned  the  fresh-cut  grass. 

"  1  can't  get  in  to  widow  Giles ;  and  she  says  you  have  got 
the  key,"  said  Rose  to  the  daughter-in-law. 

"  Yes,  I  always  lock  the  door,  for  fear  any  thing  should  ter- 
rify her  ;  she  lies  so  helpless." 


160  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

*'  Could  not  some  one  stay  with  lier  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  No,  there  is  no  one  to  stay,  except  the  children,"  replied  the 
daughter-in-law,  "  and  they  are  a  deal  more  trouble  than  com- 
fort when  one's  well ;  and  I  am  sure  they  would  be  ten  times 

orse  to  bear  in  sickness." 

"  Could  you  not  teach  them  to  be  kind  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  Well,  as  for  that,  I  don't  know  that  they  are  bad  disposi- 
tioned ;  but  children  will  be  children — at  least,  I  have  always 
found  it  so." 

Then  off  set  little  Rose  with  the  great  key  from  the  daughter- 
in-law's  pocket,  and  soon  stood  again  before  the  helpless  old  wo- 
man's door ;  she  put  in  the  key,  turned  it  round,  opened  the 
door,  and  went  into  the  desolate  room.  No  hand  of  affection 
had  been  there  to  leave  the  trace  of  its  skill  around — all  looked 
comfortless  and  dreary.  Rose  went  up  to  the  bed,  and  said,  "  I 
come  to  ask  you  how  you  are  ;  I  did  n't  know  you  were  ill  till 
yesterday." 

The  poor  old  woman  wept. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you  are  ill !"  said  little  Rose. 

"  0,  dear  young  creature,  who  would  have  thought  of  seeing 
you  !  They  say  Mrs.  Smith  will  never  so  much  as  look  at  one 
of  us  again ;  perhaps  she  does  not  know  you  are  come ;  does 
she,  dear  ?" 

"  O  yes ;  I  asked  mother  if  I  might,"  replied  Rose,  "  and  look 
here,  I  have  brought  you  a  whole  quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  !" 

"  Bless  you,  dear.  0,  if  I  could  but  think  your  family  had 
forgiven  us  !  but  they  say  it 's  no  use  to  look  for  it ;  they  say 
your  mother  never  really  forgives  any  body  that  has  once  got 
wrong.  I  am  sure  if  man  be  so  far  from  forgiveness,  I  don't 
know  how  it  will  be  with  us  when  we  come  before  God,  for  sure 
He  has  most  right  to  be  angry.  I  lie  here  thinking  of  that, 
and  it 's  a  dead  weight  on  my  heart," — and  the  poor  old  w<:)maii 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  161 

wept  on.  Tlie  tide  of  anguisli  was  much  for  a  child  to  stem  ; 
but  the  infant  of  days  who  stands  at  the  feet  of  Him  whose 
word  is  Peace,  may  so  receive  of  Him  as  by  its  feeble  utterance 
to  soothe  the  storm  into  a  calm. 

"  I  am  sure  God  will  forgive  you  if  you  ask  Him,"  said  little 
Rose  ;  "  our  minister  at  school  preached  about  the  wicked  peo- 
ple who  crucified  our  Saviour  being  forgiven,  and  made  so  sorry 
for  what  they  had  done,  and  quite  different ;  so  I  know  God 
will  forgive  you,  if  you  ask  Him." 

"  Ah  !  dear ;  but  how  can  I  know  it  ?"  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  I  will  read  it  to  you  out  of  the  Bible,"  said  little  Rose,  "  and 
then  you  will  know  it ;  our  minister  preached  it  all  out  of  the 
second  chapter  of  Acts.  Have  you  got  a  Bible  for  me  to  read 
it  in  ?" 

"  No,  dear,  I  can't  read  ;  my  son  has  one,  but  it 's  locked  up 
in  his  house." 

"  Then  I  will  bring  my  own  Bible  next  time  I  come  ;  father 
has  bought  me  such  a  beautiful  Bible,  and  I  always  take  it  to 
chmch ;  so  I  know  all  where  our  minister  at  school  preaches 
from." 

"  Ah !  dear,  I  wish  enough  you  could  read  to  me,  for  I  lie 
here,  and  there  's  never  a  creature  to  tell  me  a  word  of  advice 
or  comfort.  I  know  I  am  going,  and  there  's  no  one  to  tell  me 
what  to  do,  or  which  way  to  look.  0  !  'tis  a  dreadful  feeling, 
dear !" 

"  I  will  come — I  will  promise  to  come !"  said  little  Rose ;  "  and 
I  can  say  you  a  whole  chapter  now,  if  you  like,  without  the  Bi- 
ble. Mercy  Jones  tells  me  the  chapters  Miss  Clifford  chooses 
for  her  to  learn,  and  then  I  learn  them,  as  many  of  them  as  I 
can.  I  can  say  the  whole  of  the  fifty-fifth  chapter  of  Isaiah  !" 
Then  Rose  began :  "  Ho  every  one  that  thirsteth,  come  ye  to  the 
waters,  and  he  that  hath  no  money,  come  ye,  buy  and  eat ;  yea. 


162  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

come  buy  wine  and  milk,  without  money  and  without  price." 
The  old  woman's  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  child,  as  death  drink- 
ing- in  the  balm  of  life  ;  and  when  she  reached  the  words,  "  Let 
the  wicked  forsake  his  way,  and  the  unrighteous  man  his  thoughts, 
and  let  him  return  unto  the  Lord,  and  He  will  have  mercy  upon 
him  ;  and  to  our  God,  for  He  will  abundantly  pardon,"  the  old 
woman  asked,  "  Does  it  say  like  that  in  the  Bible  ?" 

"  Yes,  it 's  all  just  as  I  say  it ;  I  know  it  quite  perfect,"  re- 
plied little  Rose. 

"  Then  there 's  hope  for  me  !"  exclaimed  the  poor  old  woman ; 
and,  lying  back  with  closed  eyelids,  she  said  no  more,  and  the 
child  went  on. 

" That's  all,"  said  little  Rose,  when  she  had  ended  the  chapter, 
"  but  I  will  come  to-morrow,  if  I  can,  and  read  you  where  our 
minister  preached  about  the  people  who  crucified  our  Saviour." 

"  O  do,  dear  ;  words  like  them  are  life  from  the  dead  ;  why, 
it 's  like  as  if  an  angel  had  come  to  bring  me  comfort !" 

"  Have  you  any  thing  to  take  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  No,  dear ;  I  was  ready  to  faint  away  before  you  came,  only 
those  words  so  revived  me  up  again !  but  I  must  wait,  for  there 
is  n't  a  bit  of  kindling ;  if  there  had  been,  I  think  I  must  have 
tried  to  heat  a  little  water  to  make  a  drop  of  tea  to  sop  this 
crust  in ;  I  could  not  eat  it  dry,  nor  touch  the  cheese,  and  they 
went  ofi*  in  such  a  hurry,  that  was  all  they  had  to  leave  me, 
and  the  day  seems  terrible  long,  when  they  only  come  home 
once  in  the  noon-time." 

Rose  looked  at  the  fireplace ;  tljere  was  a  little  coal  by  the 
side,  and  a  match-box  over  the  mantel-piece,  but  neither  stick 
nor  straw. 

"  I  know  what  I  can  do  I"  exclaimed  Rose  ;  "  there  is  sure  to 
be  dry  wood  enough  under  the  trees  to  make  a  fire  in  no  time." 
So,  lifting  up  her  frock,  she  hastened  out,  stooping  under  the  shel- 


\e 


'^^ 


CAL\FO^ 


^  .  ^  'cm 


p.  162 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  168 

tering  trees  heavy  with  their  summer  foliage,  picking  up  the 
little  branciies,  sere  and  dry  with  sultry  heat :  when  her  frock 
was  well  filled  she  returned ;  then  kneeling  down,  her  little 
hands  soon  kindled  up  a  fire.  But  now  there  was  no  water — 
a  minute  more  and  Rose  stood  on  the  lowest  step  cut  out  in 
the  field-side,  dipping  a  pitcher  in  the  pond,  then  back  again 
to  the  cottage ;  she  pom*ed  just  enough  water  into  the  tea- 
kettle to  make  one  tea-pot  full  of  tea,  then  finding  an  old  fork 
in  the  cupboard,  she  toasted  the  dry  piece  of  bread  while  the 
water  was  heating ;  then  she  found  a  small  basin,  into  which 
she  broke  up  the  toast,  and  sprinkled  some  brown  sugar  from 
the  cupboard.  By  this  time  the  water  boiled,  and  Rose,  from 
her  own  quarter-of-a-pound,  made  a  tea-pot  of  good  tea ;  then 
filling  up  the  kettle,  she  hung  it  again  over  the  fire,  and  pour- 
ing out  the  fragrant  tea,  she  took  it  to  the  bed-side,  while  the 
old  woman's  look  on  her  was  blessing.  When  Rose  saw  how 
the  dying  woman,  faint  and  parched  with  thirst,  received  and 
fed  on  what  her  hand  prepared,  could  she  fail  to  learn  how 
blessed  was  the  power  to  help  and  comfort  ?  She  waited  till 
the  repast  was  finished,  then,  when  the  water  boiled  again,  she 
filled  the  tea-pot  up,  and,  setting  it  with  the  basin  on  a  chair 
close  by  the  bed,  where  the  old  woman  could  reach  it,  she  tied 
on  her  bonnet,  and,  locking  the  door,  ran  home — down  the 
same  open  lane,  over  the  stiles,  and  across  the  hay  meadows, 
leaving  the  key  with  the  daughter-in-law,  and  reached  the 
farm  just  as  preparations  for  the  family  tea  were  beginning — 
calm,  and  bright,  and  sweet  was  that  summer  evening  to  the 
ministering  child. 

.  Day  after  day,  when  Rose  could  be  spared  from  her  home, 
she  crossed  the  meadows,  and  trod  the  lane  to  the  lonely  wood, 
with  her  pre/iious  Bible  hanging  in  its  little  bag  upon  her  arm, 
«he  sat  by  the  old  woman's  bed  and  read  to  her  the  words 


164  MINISTERINa    CHILDREN. 

wliicli  lead  the  heart  to  Jesus.  0,  happy  England  !  where  the 
youngest  and  the  poorest  may  as  freely  as  the  •oldest  and 
the  richest  gather  the  healing  leaves  of  that  Tree  of  Life — the 
Word  of  God — where  it  grows  within  the  reach  of  all,  and 
children  may  turn  from  their  play  and  bear  its  seed  of  eternal 
life  to  the  dying,  and  they  may  receive  it  and  live  for  ever ! 
And  happy  those  who  are  found  obedient  to  the  injunction, 
"  Freely  ye  have  received,  freely  give  !" 

"  Don't  you  like  strawberries,  child  ?"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  as 
Rose  was  gathering  peas  one  morning  near  the  strawberry-bed 
with  her  mother. 

"  Yes,  mother,  may  I  gather  some  ?" 

"  You  may  as  well  have  them  as  the  birds,  I  suppose  !" 

"  May  I  have  some  every  day,  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  no  objection." 

"  How  many,  mother  ?  may  I  have  my  little  basket  full  every 
day  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  tell  you ;  why  do  you  ask  a  dozen  questions,  when 
one  would  do  ?" 

"  Shall  I  gather  you  some,  mother  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you ;  when  I  eat  strawberries,  I  like  to  gather 
them  for  myself !" 

"  Shall  I  gather  father  some  of  a  day  ?" 

"  That 's  as  he  pleases !"  replied  Mrs.  Smith,  and  Rose  went 
silently  on  with  the  gathering  of  peas. 

That  day  before  dinner.  Rose  ran  down  the  straight  garden 
path,  and  filling  her  own  little  basket  she  set  it  safe  and  coo. 
under  the  lilac-tree  ;  and  then  gathering  a  plateful,  she  brought 
^hem  in  and  put  them  away  in  the  pantry  till  after  dinner 
when  her  father  sat  down  in*  his  arm-chair  before  going  out  to 
his  business  again,  then  Rose  brought  out  the  plate  of  straw- 
hemes  and  ofiered  them  to  him. 


MINISTERING     CHIIDREN.  166 

**  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  her  father,  "  that 's  the  way  to 
enjoy  strawberries — to  have  you  gather  them  for  me,  and  be 
able  to  sit  still  and  eat  them !  I  have  no  time  to  stop  after 
th  im  while  I  am  out." 

When  Rose  was  free  to  run  off  for  her  walk,  she  hastened 
down  the  garden  path  to  the  lilac-tree,  and  covering  some  of  its 
gTeen  leaves  over  the  fruit,  to  keep  it  cool  from  the  afternoon 
sun,  she  set  off,  with  her  Bible  on  her  arm,  and  her  basket  in 
her  hand,  to  the  cottage  of  the  poor  dying  woman. 

When  widow  Giles  saw  the  strawberries,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Why,  if  it  is  n't  the  very  thing  I  have  longed  for  more  than 
meat  or  drink !  I  thought  there  seemed  nothing  so  tempting 
as  a  strawberry ;  but  if  one  has  a  penny  to  spend  on  such 
comforts,  there  is  no  one  going  to  the  town  this  busy  time  to 
lay  it  out  for  one,  so  I  had  no  thought  to  see  any."  Mean- 
while, Rose  had  spread  the  green  leaves  on  the  old  woman's 
sheet,  and  laid  a  bright  red  strawberry  on  each,  and  the  cool 
fruit  was  drink,  and  meat,  and  reviving  medicine  to  the  dying 
woman. 

"  There,"  said  Rose,  "  I  will  put  all  these  in  a  plate  where  you 
can  reach  them,  and  the  leaves  over  them,  and  you  may  eat 
them  all  up  before  I  come  again,  because  then  I  shall  bring  you 
some  more  !" 

The  scarlet  berries  were  piled  up,  day  after  day,  by  the  little 
maiden,  with  eyes  of  gladness  and  hands  of  careful  love ;  the 
daily  transfer  of  her  whole  portion  involved  no  self-denial  to 
]ier — she  had  tasted  the  "  more  blessed  to  give,"  and  having 
drunk  at  that  mountain-rill  of  higher,  purer  pleasure,  it  was 
no  effort  to  her  not  to  return  to  the  stagnant  popl  of  self.  In 
her  young  ministry  of  love,  self  was  lost  sight  of,  not  by  the 
attempt  to  subdue  it,  but  by  finding  within  her  reach  a  far 
higher  piinciple,   whose   exercise   had   power    to   change   the 


166  MINISTERING     CHIIDREN. 

touching  aspect  of  want,  and  sorrow,  and  tears — into  comfort, 
and  joy,  and  smiles.  A  child  natm'ally  loves  sunshine,  and  is 
impatient  of  the  cloud ;  let  them  early  learn  their  Heaven- 
intrusted  power  to  brighten  earth's  gloom  with  the  sunbeam 
of  love,  to  span  its  dark  sky  with  the  rainbow  of  hope,  and 
many  a  child  would  turn  to  its  exercise  who  little  dreams  of  it 
now.  And  is  it  not  well  to  lead  childhood  onward  and  upward, 
unconscious  of  effort,  wherever  possible  ? — the  call  for  resolute 
self-denial  is  sure  to  come  soon  and  often  enough,  but  every  step 
gained  unconsciously  is  vantage  ground,  leaving  the  points  of 
effort  higher,  and  involving  further  advance. 

At  last  the  day  came  for  Rose  to  go  to  the  town  with  her 
father  :  the  long  drive,  and  to  walk  about  the  town  with  him 
would  be  very  pleasant,  but  poor  widow  Giles  would  want 
her  strawberries!  So  Rose  was  up  and  among  the  straw- 
berries before  breakfast-time ;  she  filled  her  basket,  covered 
it  with  leaves,  and  set  it  under  the  lilac-tree :  then  when 
William  came  in  to  breakfast,  she  took  his  hand  and  led  him 
down  the  garden-path,  and  holding  back  the  lilac  branches 
showed  him  the  little  basket,  and  asked  him  if  he  would 
just  take  them  to  poor  widow  Giles,  who  would  be  looking  for 
them? 

"  Yes,  I  will  see  to  that,"  said  William.  So  Rose  ran  to 
breakfast,  and  then  off  in  high  spirits  with  her  father,  and  Wil- 
liam no  sooner  saw  them  started  than  he  hastened  back  to  the 
tree,  and  canied  the  little  basket  at  once  to  widow  Giles. 

Rose  came  home  as  full  of  delight  as  she  went  out,  having  a 
great  variety  of  things  to  tell,  which  her  mother  heard  with  pa- 
tience, and  her  brothers  with  sympathizing  interest. 

"  Did  you  take  my  strawberries  ?"  whispered  Rose,  the  first 
opportunity,  to  William. 

"  Yes,  that  I  did,  and  I  was  glad  enough  you  sent  me,  for  the 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  ll>7 

poor  old  woman  had  fretted  herself,  thinMng  I  was  as  hurt  with 
them  all  as  mother  !  and  I  am  sure  I  had  not  stayed  away  from 
ill-will,  and  if  I  had  known  she  worried  about  it,  I  would 
have  gone  in  to  speak  to  her  any  day,  but  I  never  gave  it  a 
thought !" 

"  0  dear  !"  said  the  old  woman,  clasping  her  hands,  as  Rose 
went  in  the  next  day,  "  I  think  I  can  die  now  !  I  Httle  thought 
what  a  day  I  was  to  have  yesterday  !" 

"  What  happened  ?"  asked  Rose. 

"  Why,  dear,  first  in  the  morning  part  came  Master  William. 
It  was  fortunate  enough  my  daughter-in-law  was  home  next 
door  washing,  so  I  was  not  locked  in  ;  he  came  in  at  the  door 
just  as  he  used  !  O,  dear,  I  never  thought  to  see  him  again, 
and  I  loved  him  like  one  of  my  own,  having  had  so  much  to  do 
in  the  nursing  of  him  !  He  stayed  some  time,  and  I  saw  I  wa"^ 
all  rio'ht  with  him,  and  then  I  thouo;ht  I  could  rest — ^for  I  seemed 
to  think  there  could  never  be  a  hope  with  your  mother.  Well, 
I  was  lying  here  in  the  afternoon-time,  thinking  hoW  he  came 
in  and  spoke  so  pleasant — when  who  should  I  see  come  up  hwt 
your  mother  herself !" 

"  My  mother  ?"  exclaimed  Rose. 

"  Yes,  dear,  what,  didn  't  she  tell  you  ?  Yes,  she  came  her- 
self !  I  was  altogether  overcome  by  the  sight  of  her,  and  burst 
out  a  crying,  and,  to  my  thinking,  she  spoke  kinder  than  ever, 
and  she  brought  me  a  bottle  of  her  own  wine.  No  medicine 
could  have  done  me  thi3  good  of  her  kind  words !  I  have  felt 
a  wonderful  comfort  ever  smce.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  Him  you 
read  to  me  about,  had  sent  me  a  pardon  for  this  world  and  the 
next.  I  had  been  getting  hold  of  a  hope  for  the  next  ever 
since  that  first  day  you  came,  but  I  thought  it  was  all  over  for 
this,  but  now  I  see  He  that  can  give  the  one  can  give  the  other 
too.       And   now   that   dread    I    had  is  wholly    gone,    and   I 


168  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

don't  seem  to  see  a  fear  now — looking  to  Him  you  read  of 
to  me !" 

After  a  few  more  peaceful  days,  widow  Giles  died.  Ttey  laid 
lier  body  in  the  village  churchyard,  and  in  the  evening,  when 
all  the  mourners  and  the  people  were  gone,  Rose  went  alone*  and 
stood  by  the  grave,  and  she  looked  up  to  the  calm  blue  sky,  and 
felt  as  if  the  blessing  of  that  poor  old  widow  fell  down  upon  her 
from  Heaven.  So  passed  away  her  hoHdays,  and  Rose  went 
back  to  her  school. 

But  one  little  girl  there  was  who  had  done  with  school,  who 
had  learned  her  last  lesson,  and  was  gone  Home  for  ever — 
Home,  not  to  a  house  made  with  hands,  which  trouble,  and  sor- 
row, and  sickness,  and  death  can  enter ;  but  Home  to  a  House 
Qot  made  with  hands,  a  mansion  in  the  Heavens,  where  dark- 
ness and  evil  cannot  come,  where  there  is  no  more  crying,  or 
sorrow,  or  pain,  or  death,  but  God  wipes  away  all  tears,  and  every 
one  is  happy  for  ever.  It  was  not  little  Mercy  who  had  done 
with  school — no,  she  was  never  absent  from  her  place  there,  she 
had  many  sweet  lessons  yet  to  learn,  and  some  hard  ones  too. 
It  was  not  little  Jane — no,  her  school-days  had  not  yet  begun,  she 
still  learned  at  her  mother's  side,  and  dropped  with  patient  love 
her  weekly  penny  into  her  little  box  to  clothe  the  orphan  Mercy. 
It  was  not  poor  Patience — ^no,  she  had  not  learned  the  first  and 
best  of  all  Heavenly  lessons  yet,  that  God  is  love  :  she  was  to 
leani  this  lesson,  but  she  had  not  learned  it  yet,  so  she  must  still 
be  kept  in  this  world  at  school  to  learn  the  lessons  that  can  only 
be  learned  here.  Who  then  was  the  happy  child  who  had  done 
with  school  for  ever,  and  was  sent  for  Home  ?  It  was  little 
Ruth.  Heaven's  shining  gate  often  opens,  and  the  holy  angels 
come  down  to  fetch  little  children  home  to  their  Heavenly  Father 
long  before  those  little  children  expected  to  be  sent  for.  Then 
let  every  child  try  to  please  God  in  all  things,  as  little  Ruth  did^ 


MINISTERING     OHILDRE>  169 

because  no  one  knows  how  soon  tLe  call  may  come.  The  spring 
had  been  and  the  suumier  followed,  but  they  had  brought  no 
bloom  of  life  to  the  cheeks  of  little  Kuth.  She  was  sittinq-  in 
her  comfortless  home  one  Saturday  afternoon  with  her  Bible  on 
her  knee,  learning  her  texts  of  Scripture,  when  her  father  came 
in :  something  had  made  him  angiy,  and  little  Ruth  trembled 
at  the  words  he  spoke.  "  Oh,  father,"  she  gently  said, "  we  must 
not  take  God's  holy  name  in  vain  !" 

"  And  why  not  ?"  said  her  father,  turning  sharply  to  the  little 
girl,  as  she  sat  on  her  stool  near  the  sleeping  infant. 

"  Because,  father,  the  Bible  says  so." 

"  And  what 's  the  Bible  to  me,  I  should  like  to  know  ?"  asked 
her  father. 

"  O,  it 's  just  every  thing,  if  you  did  but  know  it,  father ; 
it 's  just  every  thing  to  me !" 

And  little  Ruth  looked  up,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her 
father-in-law  was  looking  down  on  her,  and  the  sight  of  her 
pale  sweet  face,  the  Bible  open  on  her  knee,  and  her  trembling 
voice  declaring  it  was  every  thing  to  her,  was  too  much  for  the 
hardened  man  ;  the  thought  broke  in  upon  him,  how  he  had 
left  her  no  other  comfort ;  and  he  went  out  of  the  house  unable 
to  look  at  the  child  again.  He  never  rested  till  he  found  work, 
and  then  he  toiled  as  if  he  felt  he  had  a  life  to  save ;  but  it  was 
too  late  for  little  Ruth  !  she  seemed  to  have  done  with  earth 
from  that  Saturday  evening  when  she  bore  her  young  witness  to 
the  Word  of  God,  and  when  the  next  Saturday  came  she  lay  on 
her  pillow  unable  to  speak  or  move  ;  her  father-in-law  hurried 
home  with  his  earnings,  and  stooping  over  her,  said,  "  I  have 
brought  all  my  wages,  you  shall  have  every  thing  now  !" 

Yes,  little  Ruth  would  have  every  thing  now — for  in  the  home 
where  blessed  children  dwell  in  Heaven,  no  want  can  ever  come. 
There  God  our  Father,  and  Jesus  our  Saviour  and  Shepherd, 

8 


170  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

and  the  Holy  Spirit  dwell :  there  the  holy  acgels  live  ;  and  all 
is  love,  and  joy,  and  gladness  for  ever.  Miss  Wilson  had  been 
tjeveral  times  to  see  the  little  girl,  and  now  she  came  again,  hut 
the  dying  child  had  done  with  earth,  she  did  not  know  her 
friend,  though  her  eyes  were  open,  and  she  was  looking  up- 
ward. 

"  Sure  she  sees  the  angels  coming  for  her  !"  said  her  weeping 
mother,  "  see  how  she  smiles — 0 !  what  a  heavenly  smile  !" 

But  no  one  knows  the  blessed  sights  that  God's  departing 
children  see !  and  with  that  smile  upon  her  lips,  little  Ruth 
passed  away.  Little  Ruth,  who  loved  the  Saviour,  and  prayed 
to  Him  ;  who  loved  God's  Holy  Word,  and  tried  to  please  Him ; 
little  Ruth,  her  mother's  comfort,  whom  her  little  sister  and 
infant  brother  loved  so  much ;  the  favorite  of  her  school-fel- 
lows ;  and  one  of  the  best  children  in  the  school :  little  Ruth, 
the  friend  and  teacher  of  the  poor  dying  child,  passed  away 
from  earth  !  Little  Ruth  was  never  forgotten  by  any  of  her 
friends ;  nor  by  her  father-in-law — she  was  gone  far  away  out 
of  his  sight,  but  he  could  not  forget ;  he  took  her  Bible  and 
tried  to  follow  its  words  as  she  had  done ;  and  he  took  care  of 
his  two  poor  little  children,  and  made  their  home  and  theii 
mother's  happy. 

— "  Seated  on  the  tomb,  Faith's  angel 
Says,  '  To  are  not  there,' 
Where  then  are  ye  ?    "With  the  Saviour, 
Blest,  for  ever  blest  are  ye  ; 
'Mid  the  sinless  little  children 
Who  have  heard  His  '  Come  to  me  I' 
'Tond  the  shades  of  Death's  dark  valley, 
Now  ye  lean  upon  His  breast — 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
And  the  weary  are  at  rest" 


CHAPTER    XII. 

"Let  all  your  things  bo  done  with  charity."—!  Cob.  ivt  14 

"  T)APA  "  said  Herbert  one  day   at  dinner,  as  the  year  was 

-*-  closing  m,  "  I  have  long  made  up  my  mind  to  give  Jem 
some  valuable  present  this  Christmas,  and  to-day  I  have  hit  on 
the  right  thing.  It  will  cost  £S,  but  I  can  manage  it,  because 
I  have  had  the  thought  so  long  in  my  mind  that  I  have  been 
saving  up  my  money  for  it ;  and  now  I  am  so  delighted  to  have 
found  the  very  thing  !     Can  you  guess,  papa  ?" 

"  I  am  almost  afraid  to  try,"  said  Mr.  Cliftbrd,  smiling ;  "  for 
sometimes  your  right  thing  and  mine  do  not  recognize  each 
other  at  first  sight,  and  I  may  disappoint  you." 

"  Do  try,  papa,  this  is  not  charity,  you  know ;  so  there  is  not 
the  same  fear ;  and  you  must  think  it  a  capital  thing,  for  Jem 
is  not  the  easiest  person  to  find  out  a  right  sort  of  a  present 
for  ;  is  he,  papa  ?" 

"  No,  perhaps  ^ot,"  replied  Mr.  Clifford,  "  because  his  wants 
do  not  extend  beyond  life's  necessaries,  and  his  own  honest 
hands  provide  those." 

"  Yes,  papa,  and  my  present  is  something  to  do  with  life's 
necessaries — something  to  do  with  Jem's  work  !  Now,  papa, 
can  you  guess  ?" 

"  Something  to  do  with  Jem's  work,  and  to  cost  £3,"  said  Mr 
Clifford,  in  a  tone  of  reflection.  "  I  confess  I  am  puzzled  ;  1 
did  not  think  Jem  made  use  of  such  costly  assistance  in  his 
simple  labor.'* 


1*72  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  No,  papa ;  it 's  something  quite  new  to  Jem ;  such  a  tiling 
as  lie  never  had,  or  thought  of  having.  I  am  full  of  the  sui- 
prise  it  will  be  to  him  !" 

"  Is  it  a  watch  ?"  asked  Mr.  Clifford,  doubtfully. 

"  No,  not  a  watch  ;  I  could  not  get  any  thing  of  a  watch  for 
£3  ;  could  I,  papa  ?  Besides  which,  Jem's  watch  is  in  the  sky  ; 
he  always  keeps  time  by  the  sun,  without  any  trouble  of  wind- 
ing up  !" 

"  Is  it  some  implement  of  husbandry  f  asked  Mr.  Clifford. 

"  No,  papa,  Jem  is  a  shepherd !  only  Mr.  Smith  sometimes 
puts  him  to  other  work  when  he  wants  him." 

"  Is  it  a  shepherd's  dog  of  some  superior  excellence  ?" 

"  No,  papa,  Jem  has  hard  work  to  keep  his  old  mother  and 
little  niece,  he  could  not  keep  a  dog !  though  to  be  sure  that  is 
a  good  idea." 

"  Then  I  confess  I  must  give  it  up,"  said  Mr.  Clifford. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  can  not  guess,  papa  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  give  up  in  despair." 

"  Well  then,  papa,  I  have  seen  the  most  perfect  collection  of 
all  sorts  of  carpenter's  tools  in  a  box  for  £3 ;  every  thing  you 
could  possibly  want !  Won't  it  be  just  the  present  to  give  to 
one  who  does  every  thing  for  himself?" 

"  Is  Jem  a  carpenter,  then  ?" 

"  No,  papa,  he  is  a  shepherd  !  but  he  does  every  thing  for  him- 
self ;  so  that  there  must  often  be  carpenter's  work  wanted." 

"  I  think  you  will  certainly  make  him  a  little  work,  in  keep- 
ing his  tools  bright ;  for  I  am  afraid  his  use  of  them  will  not 
be  likely  to  do  it." 

"  Then  you  do  not  think  that  it  would  be  a  nice  present  for 
him,  papa  ?" 

"  No,  I  can  not  say  I  do.  I  think  when  you  give  your  friend 
a  present,  it  is  a  pity  to  give  him  a  trouble.     I  have  no  doubt 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  173 

you  would  find  that  Jem  is  quite  as  independent  of  carpenter's 
tools,  as  lie  is  of  carpenter's  aid  in  his  mending  and  making." 

"  Can  you  think  of  any  thing  then,  papa  ?"  asked  Herbert,  in 
a  tone  whose  gladness  was  gone. 

"  Why  not  give  him  a  good  winter  great-coat "?  I  should  say 
that  would  be  far  better." 

"  No,  papa,  I  don't  want  my  first  present  to  Jem  to  be  clothes ! 
I  don't  want  it  to  be  like  charity  !  I  want  him  to  see  I  have 
thought  about  how  best  to  please  him." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  charity  admits  no  thought  of  how 
best  to  please  ?" 

"  No,  papa,  I  don't  think  that ;  only  I  don't  want  my  present 
to  Jem  to  look  like  charity." 

"  What  then  do  you  suppose  charity  to  be  ?  Let  us  have 
your  explanation  of  the  word." 

"  0  papa,  every  body  knows  what  charity  is  ?  though  I  am 
pretty  sure  nobody  knows  what  a  mess  they  may  make  of  it 
till  they  try  at  it,  for  it 's  ten  to  one  if  they  hit  it  right  when 
they  do  try  !" 

"  But  what  do  you  explain  this  same  charity  to  mean  ?" 

"  Well,  papa,  one  can  not  always  explain  what  every  body 
knows,  but  of  course  it 's  doing  for  the  poor  !" 

"  Very  true,  my  boy ;  only  remember,  there  is  no  one  on 
earth  so  rich  as  not  to  need  this  heaven-born  charity  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  papa  ?  vou  don't  want  charity  !" 

"  Yes,  dear  Herbert,  I  do ;  ana  so  do  you.  To  be  poor  in 
money,  is  but  one  point  of  poverty  ;  just  as  to  be  rich  in  money, 
is  but  one  point  of  riches." 

"  What  then  are  you  poor  in,  papa  ?" 

"  I  am  so  poor,  that  there  is  no  one  I  have  any  iitercourse 
with  who  may  not  make  me  richer." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  papa  ?" 


1V4  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  I  mean  tliat  my  earthly  comfort  depends  more  upon  that 
Bpirit  of  love  or  charity,  in  those  with  whom  I  am  associated, 
than  upon  any  thing  else ;  and  this  is  true  of  all.  One  of  the 
chief  reasons  of  the  happiness  of  heaven  is,  that  there  every 
thought  and  feeling,  every  word  and  action,  is  governed  by 
CHARITY !  And  the  nearer  you  come  to  the  practice  of  this 
spiiit  of  love  on  earth,  the  nearer  you  come  to  the  spii'it  of 
heaven." 

"  But  then,  papa,  if  I  could  think  of  any  thing  to  please  Jem 
more  than  a  coat,  I  might  give  it  to  him,  and  yet  not  go  against 
charity  ?" 

"  Yes,  certainly,  whatever  most  proves  your  thoughtful  in- 
terest in  others,  and  care  for  them,  is  the  best  and  brightest 
exercise  of  charity." 

Soon  after  this,  Herbert  was  left  alone  with  his  mother  and 
sister,  when  he  said  sorrowfully,  "  I  declare  I  feel  ready  to  cry  ! 
I  never  felt  so  sure  before  about  having  hit  on  the  right  thing ; 
and  now  papa  thinks  it  quite  wrong  ;  and  papa  comes  down  so 
gi'ave  upon  one,  that  the  thing  never  looks  the  same  afterward 
— I  don't  care  about  that  box  of  tools  the  least  now  !" 

"  Did  old  Willy's  cottage  not  look  the  same  when  papa  had 
made  it  yours  ?"  asked  Miss  Cliiford. 

"0,  Mary,  you  know  that  was  the  best  thing  that  ever 
happened  to  me  in  all  my  life  !  Of  course  I  did  not  mean 
that." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  only  mean  that  papa  shows  you  your 
mistakes  ?" 

"  I  don't  knolv,  I  am  sure,"  rephed  Heibert ;  "  but  I  often  get 
so  full  of  a  thing,  and  it  looks  as  pleasant  as  possible,  and  then 
I  am  off  to  talk  to  papa  about  it,  and  he  makes  it  look  as  dull 
as  can  be.  I  wonder  how  it  is  that  I  can  so  seldom  tliink  like 
papa  beforehand !" 


MINISTERING     CHILDEEN.  l76 

"  SLall  I  try  and  help  you  lo  understand  ho  ff  it  is  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Clifford. 

"  Yes,  mamma,  I  wish  you  would." 

"  You  have  often  been  out  early  these  last  nine  months ;  have 
you  not  observed  how  different  objects  looked  to  you  in  the 
misty  light  of  the  morning,  how  large  some  small  things  seemed, 
and  how  the  dew-drops  looked  like  diamonds  in  the  bright  sun- 
beams, and  the  grass  you  walked  upon  sparkled  with  countless, 
points  of  brilliant  light  and  color  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  but  what  of  that  ?" 

"  That  is  like  your  early  morning  of  life,  my  child,  when,  for 
want  of  clearer  knowledge,  many  objects  appear  to  you  differ- 
ent to  what  they  really  are.  But,  your  father  has  reached  life's 
afternoon,  when  the  misty  light  deceives  no  longer,  and  the  dia- 
mond dew-drops  are  gone  from  the  earth,  and  therefore  when  he 
puts  things  in  the  clearer  light  of  his  fuller  knowledge,  they  ap- 
pear to  you  very  different." 

"  Well,  mamma,  I  wish  things  were  always  blight !  I  am 
sure  it  is  much  pleasanter  when  they  are." 

"  They  will  be  always  bright  in  heaven,  my  dear  boy ;  no 
light  of  fuller  knowledge  can  ever  change  the  forms  and  hues 
of  heaven — except  to  increase  their  beauty.  The  day's  loveli 
est  dawn,  and  your  life's  glowing  morning,  are  but  to  picture  to 
you  a  little  of  heaven.  But  there  the  bloom  and  the  fragrance, 
the  glory  and  the  freshness,  never  pass  away.  If  we  could  al- 
ways keep  earth's  brightness  here,  we  might  seek  less  earnestly 
for  that  inheritance  which  can  not  fade  away." 

"  I  know  you  must  be  right,  mamma,  but  still  it  seems  sad  to 
have  things  that  looked  so  pleasant  changed." 

"  Many  true  things  are  sad  on  earth,  dear  Herbert.  He  who 
is  Himself  the  Truth — your  Heavenly  Counselor  was  a  Man  of 
sorrows  here  on  earth  ;   but,  in  heaven,  Tnith  wears  only  her 


176  MINISTERING     CHIjuDREN. 

beautiful  garments,'  and  will  be  known  by  all  who  dwell  there, 
only  in  her  brightness  for  ever." 

"  It  was  Herbert's  Cbristmas  holidays,  and  the  next  morning, 
when  he  went  into  his  sister's  room  after  breakfast,  to  read  to  her, 
he  was  still  feeling  his  disappointment  about  the  box  of  tools. 

"  It  is  a  pity  about  Jem,  is  it  not,  Mary  ?  I  did  want  to  give 
him  something  that  might  always  please  him." 

"  But  why  heed  you  give  up  the  hope  to  do  so  still  ?"  asked 
his  sister ;  "is  a  box  of  tools  the  end  of  all  useful  and  pleasant 
things  ?" 

"No,  but  for  Jem  it  is  not  easy  to  find  any  thing  really  pleas- 
ant to  give  ;  now  I  have  given  up  the  tools,  I  can  not  think  of 
a  sino-le  thinjr." 

"  Shall  I  tell,  you  what  I  think  would  please  him  more  than 
any  other  present  ?" 

"  0  yes,  do  tell  me — you  always  bring  back  one's  hope  even 
when  it 's  quite  gone — do  tell  me  directly  !" 

"  You  know  how  fond  Jem  is  of  his  dear  old  mother ;  did 
you  not  hear  of  his  saving  up  a  little  money  he  had  for  her,  to 
buy  her  a  winter  gown  ?" 

"  No." 

"  He  did  so,  and  she  was  delighted  with  her  son's  present,  as 
you  can  suppose  ;  and  I  have  often  thought,  if  the  dear  old  wo- 
man could  have  one  of  those  bright  red  cloaks,  it  would  keep 
lier  warm  all  her  life  ;  she  would  look  the  very  picture  of  com- 
fort in  it ;  and  Jem  would  hardly  know  how  to  be  happy 
enough.  And  you  could  send  for  Jem  on  Christmas  eve,  and 
let  it  be  his  Christmas  morning  present  to  his  mother." 

"  That  will  be  the  very  thing  !"  exclaimed  Herbert,  with  tJe- 
ligrit  as  ft-esh  as  ever.     "  I  will  run  and  tell  papa  !" 

Mr.  Clifford  thought  that  nothing  could  be  better,  and  Mrs, 
Clifibrd  approved  it  as  the  best  thing  possible  ;  so  Herbert  re« 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  177 

turned  to  his  sister,  and  the  rainbow-hues  around  the  gift  were 
bright  again,  as  when  his  own  heart  first  framed  the  thought — 
bright  in  truth's  own  radiance  now.  After  Herbert  had  talked 
with  his  sister  a  while  about  the  red  cloak — where  it  was  to  be 
bought,  and  how  it  was  all  to  be  managed — he  sat  silent  for  a 
moment  on  the  side  of  the  sofa  where  she  was  lying,  and  theu 
said,  "  Did  you  hear  what  mamma  was  saying  yesterday  about 
my  seeing  all  things  in  the  morning's  misty  light;  and  papa 
seeing  them  as  they  really  were  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  heard  it  all." 

"  Well,  then,  I  can  not  make  it  out !  because  you  always  bring 
the  brightness  back  when  it 's  all  gone,  and  if  you  think  differ- 
ently from  me,  yet  you  don't  take  the  brightness  away,  you 
only  put  it  on  something  else,  and  yet  papa  is  sure  to  say  you 
are  quite  right  ?" 

Herbert  looked  inquinngly  at  his  sister ;  the  tear  started  to 
her  eyes,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Dear  Mary  !  what  makes  you  sad  ?"  asked  Herbert. 

"  Only  the  thought  that  perhaps  if  I  answered  your  question, 
it  would  make  you  sad,  dear." 

"  O,  no  ;  do  tell  me  if  you  can  ;  I  want  to  know  !" 

"  Well,  then,  in  the  morning,  as  mamma  said,  the  dew  lies 
thick  upon  the  grass,  and  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  the  soft  mist 
half  conceals  many  objects ;  but  the  dew  and  the  mist  are  only 
of  earth,  and  the  sun's  fuller  rays  absorb  the  dew  and  the  mist, 
and  they  are  gone  :  and  then  comes  the  clear  day,  when  every 
thing  appears  as  it  is  in  itself:  and  then,  dear  Herbert,  what 
next  ?" 

"  The  evening  comes  next,"  replied  Herbert. 

"  Yes,  the  setting  sun — and  then  the  brightness  is  all  from 
Heaven !  You  see  the  golden  sunbeams  fall,  and  they  light 
up  all  they  touch ;  but  they  do  not  make  any  thing  appear 


178  MINISTERING     CHILDREN 

what  it  is  not ;  you  see  all  things  truly,  only  you  see  them 
gilded  by  light  from  Heaven — a  softer,  stiller  brightness  than 
the  morning's  dazzling  light,  a  brightness  that  lasts  till  the  sun 
has  set ;  and  that,  dear  Herbert,  is  the  brightness  in  which  I 
see  all  things ;  and  because  it  does  not  mislead,  papa  agree? 
with  it." 

"  "What  do  you  mean,  Mary  ?" 

*'  I  mean  that  my  sun  is  setting,  and  I  can  not  help  but  see 
the  brightness  it  casts  on  all  around  me." 

"  But  what  do  you  mean  by  your  sun  setting,  Mary  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  believe  I  am  dying  to  earth,  but  rising  to  God 
and  Heaven." 

"  0,  Mary,  you  can  not  mean  dying  !  you  know  you  were  ill 
last  winter,  and  then  you  got  well  again — almost  well ;  did  you 
not  ?  And  so  you  will  this  time,  indeed  you  will !  God  would 
not  take  away  the  happiness  from  every  thing,  and  it  would  be 
all  gone  if  you  were  gone  !" 

"  If  we  put  our  happiness  in  any  thing  more  than  in  God,  He 
may  take  it  away,  dear  Herbert,  if  He  loves  us,  to  teach  us  to 
find  it  first  in  Himself." 

"  I  will  try  to  find  my  happiness  still  more  in  God,  if  you  stay 
with  us,  Mary." 

"  Perhaps  God  may  teach  you  to  do  so,  by  taking  me  away  !" 

"  0,  no,  I  could  not  learn  any  thing  then !" 

"  We  do  not  know  what  we  can  learn,  or  how  we  can  learn 
best,  till  God  teaches  us,  dear."  • 

"  I  am  sure  papa  and  mamma  can  not  have  such  a  thought 
bout  you,  Mary ;  they  could  never  bear  it !" 

"  Papa  and  mamma  will  try  to  bear  God's  will,  whatever  it 
may  be ;  and  will  not  you  try  also,  dear  Herbert  ?" 

"How  do  you  know  that  papa  and  mamma  have  such  a 
thought  ?" 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  l79 

**  Because  we  often  talk  about  it." 

"  I  never  hear  them  !" 

"  No,  they  do  not  like  to  tell  you,  for  fear  of  making  you 
unhappy ;  but  I  wanted  you  to  know,  that  we  might  talk  to- 
gether of  that  blessed  home  to  which  I  am  gcmg." 

"  Do  you  like  to  think  of  going,  then  ?" 
'  "  0  yes,  I  love  Heaven  more  than  earth,  and  my  God  and 
Saviour  more  than  all  beside  !  I  used  to  be  afraid  that  when  I 
was  .gone,  papa  and  mamma  would  have  no  companion  to  walk 
with  them  in  the  way  to  Heaven,  and  my  poor  people  no  earthl} 
comforter ;  but  you  took  away  these  fears,  dear  Herbert ;  or 
rather  God  took  them  away  by  you  ;  and  now,  instead  of  tears 
of  sadness,  you  make  me  shed  tears  of  joy  sometimes." 

"  But,  dear  Mary,  if  you  were  to  stay,  I  could  help  you  do  all 
this.  I  am  sure  the  doctor  can  not  think  you  so  ill,  because  he 
has  told  me  so  many  times  that  you  were  better  !  If  he  says 
that  he  thinks  you  will  get  well,  will  you  think  so  too  ?" 

Miss  Clifford  smiled,  and  asked  :  "  If  you  could  see  the  gate  of 
our  own  home  before  you,  could  you  easily  believe  any  one  who 
told  you  that  a  long  journey  still  lay  between  you  and  it  ?" 

"  "V^Tiat  do  you  mean,  Mary  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  see  the  better  world,  and  but  a  step  between 
me  and  it !" 

"  But  you  may  see  it,  Mary,  if  you  will  not  go  to  it  yet !  If 
the  doctor  says  you  will  get  well,  will  you  believe  it  ?" 

"  He  can  not  say  that,  dear." 

"  But  if  he  says  he  thinks  you  will,  will  you  try  and  get  well  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  promise  you,  whatever  the  doctor  may  say,  that 
[  will  do  any  thing  I  can  that  might  help  my  recovery." 

"  I  will  go  off  dij'ectly  then  and  ask  him !"  exclaimed  Her- 
bert. 

"  No,  stop,  dear  Herbert,  do  not  go  !"  but  the  boy  was  gone. 


180  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Papa,  I  want  to  go  to  tbe  town,  if  you  have  no  objection ;  1 
shall  soon  be  back." 

"  Xo,  I  have  Qot  any  objection,"  Mr.  Clifford  replied  ;  and  Her- 
bert was  soon  on  the  road.  He  requested  to  speak  with  the 
medical  man,  who  quickly  appeared,  asking,  hastily,  whether 
"  Miss  Clifford  were  worse  ?" 

"  No,  I  hope  she  is  better,"  replied  Herbert,  "  but  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  whether  you  do  not  think  she  will  get  well  when  the 
spring  time  comes  ?" 

"  It  is  not  always  easy  to  speak  positively  on  such  subjects," 
replied  the  doctor. 

"  But  you  do  think  my  sister  may  get  well  again,  as  she  die 
last  summer,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  think  that,  with  the  gi*eatest  care.  Miss  Clifford 
may  recover  again  as  she  did  last  summer." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  could  not  rest  without  asking  you."  And 
Araby  bore  his  young  master  swiftly  home  again. 

"  Dear  Mary,  I  was  right !  the  doctor  does  think  that  with 
the  greatest  care  you  may  recover  again,  as  you  did  last  sum- 
mer !     Will  you  not  think  so  too  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  think  that,  dear !" 

"  And  then,  when  you  have  recovered,  there  is  no  reason  why 
you  should  be  ill  again,  more  than  any  one  else  who  has  been 
ill  and  recovers !" 

Miss  Clifford  only  smiled,  and  Herbert  did  not  read  the  mean- 
ing of  that  smile. 

Herbert  had  put  away  all  fear  of  losing  his  bister  from  his 
mind  :  but  the  momentary  distress  of  the  thought  had  made  him 
chng  closer  to  her  than  ever.  He  talked  with  her  still  oftener, 
and  whatever  gave  rise  to  her  words  they  continually  ended  in 
Heaven — till  her  young  brother  learned  to  feel  the  better 
world  a  familiar  place  to  him,  and  a  home  in  which,  while  still 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  181 

Oil  earth,  tliouglit  and  affection,  as  well  as  hope,  found  their 
true  restmg-place.  He  talked  with  her — and  the  sweet  links 
of  hallowed  sympathy  that  bound  her  to  the  poor,  drew  him 
also  to  them,  in  the  tie  of  true  feeling  and  warm  interest.  He 
read  to  her  from  the  holy  Scriptures — and  the  clear  undoubt- 
ing  words  of  one  who  had  learned  almost  her  last  lesson  of  God's 
unfolded  truth,  led  him  on  in  the  understanding  of  that  which 
-was  the  Light  of  Life  to  her. 

A  few  days  before  Christmas,  Herbert  was  sitting  talking 
with  old  Willy  on  the  stool  opposite  the  old  man's  chair,  beside 
the  blazing  hearth,  when  suddenly  his  eye  fell  again  on  a  large 
hole  he  had  often  observed  in  old  Willy's  coat. 

"  I  wish,  Willy,  you  had  a  new  coat ;  you  have  worn  this  old 
thing  ever  since  I  knew  you,  and  it  is  getting  quite  a  rag." 

"  Ay,  master,  I  can't  count  the  years  I  've  worn  it,  and  for 
certain  it 's  none  the  better  for  use.  I  have  a  Sunday  coat  that 
I  bought  the  last  harvest  I  made — and  that 's  some  years  agone 
now — but  if  I  take  my  Sunday  dress  for  common  days,  I  shall 
never  look  decent  on  the  Sabbath  then." 

"  What !  have  you  not  had  a  new  coat  since  you  could  go 
harvesting,  Willy  ?" 

"  No,  master,  that  was  the  last  time  I  earned  a  bit  of  gold, 
and  I  'm  never  like  to  earn  so  much  as  silver  now.  No,  I  have 
stood  king  of  the  reapers  many  a  year,  and  led  them  on  with 
green  bough  and  sickle,  but  that 's  all  over  now,  and  I  am  think- 
ing of  Him  that  is  coming,  as  it  says  in  my  Book,  '  to  gather 
His  wheat  into  the  garner,  and  to  burn  up  the  chaff  with  un- 
quenchable fire' — 0  that  I  may  be  found  a  true  grain  then  !" 

Herbert  sat  silent,  pondering  on  how  it  might  be  possible  to 
get  a  new  coat  for  old  Willy.  The  bright  red  cloak  would  take 
all  his  store,  and  was  more  important  than  even  old  Willy's 
<»at     The  old  man  too  seemed  musing  upon  something ;  at  laa^ 


182  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

he  first  broke  silence,  saying,  "  It 's  no  time,  I  say,  for  me  to  "be 
thinking  of  fineiy,  wlien  I  can  never  get  up  money  enougli,  for 
such  a  place  as  this  is  about  me.  I  've  tried  hard  these  last 
quarters  to  make  up  a  little  above  what  I  paid  him  that  kept 
it  so  bad,  but  I  couldn't  live  on  less,  and  so  it's  just  about  the 
same  as  I  saved  up  before ;  but  it  don't  seem  the  thing  to  have 
the  old  place  done  up  like  this,  and  yet  pay  no  more  for  the 
comfort  of  it." 

"  Why,  Willy,  you  are  not  to  pay  me  any  rent !  I  told  you 
60  at  first ;  don't  you  remember  ?" 

"  0,  yes,  master,  I  remember  how  you  told  me  I  was  to  stay 
in  the  old  place ;  I  can  never  forget  the  wonder  of  that !" 

"And  not  to  pay  any  rent,  Willy!" 

"  Not  pay  any  rent  ?"  repeated  old  Willy,  in  a  tone  of  in- 
quiring astonishment.  "Yes,  master,  I  hope  I'll  not  turn  like 
that  against  such  goodness  as  yours ;  I  have  saved  it  all  up  as 
careful  as  I  could  !" 

"  Now,  Willy,"  said  Herbert,  standing  up  in  despair,  "  I  don't 
mean  to  let  you  pay  me  any  rent ;  so  all  the  money  you  have 
saved  up — is  yours  !     Can  you  understand  that  ?" 

"  Yes,  master,  I  can  understand,  but  I  can't  see  the  thing  to 
be  right  for  all  that !" 

"  Never  mind,  Willy,  it  must  be  right  if  I  say  it,  because  it's 
my  house  ;  and  I  want  you  to  be  happy  in  it,  and  to  live  a  long 
while  !  I  will  tell  you  what  papa  says — papa  says  that  to  give 
is  the  BIRTHRIGHT  of  cvcry  child  of  God !  so  it  is  quite  right  for 
me  to  give  you  back  your  rent.  And  now,  Willy,  you  can  buy 
a  new  coat  with  that  money  you  have  saved  up  !  Do  you  un- 
derstand !" 

"  Yes,  master,  I  understand,  and  thank  you  too." 

Herbert  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  picture  of  comfort 
old  Willy  would  look  at  his  fireside,  in  his  pretty  cottage,  if  he 


MINISTERING     CHILDEBN.  188 

liad  but  a  nice  coat ;  so  in  two  days'  time,  lie  called  in  again  to 
see  if  it  was  bought. 

"  Well,  Willj,  have  you  got  a  new  coat  ?" 

"  No,  master,  I  can't  say  I  have  as  yet.'* 

"But  you  must  make  haste,  "Willy; — ^you  know  you  have 
money  enough  now." 

"  Yes,  master,  that 's  true  that  I  have,  but  there  is  a  tliought 
come  in  my  mind  that  hinders  me  a  bit." 

"  What  thought,  Willy  ?" 

"  Why,  my  Jem,  as  I  call  him,  was  in  here  a  few  evenings 
ago,  and  he  was  telling  me  how  he  had  been  over  to  a  meeting 
holden  some  where  in  these  parts,  where  they  told  about  places 
a  longful  way  off,  where  they  have  not  so  much  as  a  BibJe !  and 
I  have  been  thinking  hov/  I  sit  reading  here  all  about  those 
mansions  in  Heaven,  and  Him  that 's  the  way  to  them ;  and 
out  there,  in  such  places  as  those  he  heard  speak  of,  they  can't 
so  much  as  get  sight  of  the  Book  !" 

"  Well,  Willy,  that 's  all  true  ;  but  what  of  that  ?" 

"  Ah,  master,  you  see  I  'm  just  thinking  it 's  a  deal  of  money 
to  spend  on  a  coat  for  an  old  man  like  me,  that  may  never  live 
to  want  it ;  so  I  was  thinking  to  get  this  patched  up  a  bit,  to 
.ook  tidy  like  for  me  ;  and  then,  maybe,  if  I  could  get  to  them 
just  that  money  you  give  back  to  me,  why  they  might  get  a 
Bible  out  there,  to  show  them  the  true  way  to  Heaven  !" 

"  O,  Willy,  not  all  that  you  have  saved  for  your  rent !  you 
might  send  enough  for  one  Bible,  and  have  a  coat  too  !" 

"  Well,  master,  it  must  be  as  you  please,  for  sure  enoiigh  it 's 
all  yours,  and  not  mine ;  only  I  'm  thinking  how  I  live  like  a 
prince,  to  what  that  poor  beggar  did  I  read  of  in  my  Book ;  and 
yet  the  angels  carried  him  into  Heaven :  but  how  those  poor 
creatures  are  ever  to  get  there,  that  never  heard  the  words  of 
the  Book  to  show  them  Him  that 's  the  way — it  hurt=  me  to  think  I" 


184  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

■"  Deal  Willy !  I  do  believe  you  are  right,  and  I  won't  mind 
about  your  coat !  Papa  can  send  the  money  for  you  if  you 
like,"  said  Herbert,  rather  sorrowfully.  But,  O !  the  joy  that 
lighted  up  the  old  man's  eye,  as  he  poured  out  the  saved  up 
contents  of  his  little  leathern-bag,  sixpences  and  shiUings,  and 
saw  Herbert  bear  them  off ;  and  then  sat  down  to  his  Book  with 
thoughts  of  those  who,  hke  himself,  would  hear  and  read  the 
glad  tidings  of  great  joy  through  the  Book  that  would  now  be 
sent  to  show  them  the  way  ! 

Mr.  Clifford  heard  the  touching  tale,  and  took  the  old  man's 
offering  from  the  boy ;  and  Herbert  went  on  to  say,  "  Papa,  I 
ought  to  think  of  those  who  have  no  Bibles,  as  well  as  old 
Willy,  and  I  could  do  it  without  having  to  give  up  my  coat  for 
it !     What  could  I  give,  papa  ?" 

"  You  could  give  me  whatever  you  like,  monthly,  or  quarterly, 
or  yearly,"  replied  his  father. 

"  I  should  like  monthly  best,  I  think,  papa ;  when  I  receive 
my  money."  So  Herbert,  led  by  old  Willy,  began  to  stretch 
forth  his  hand  to  aid  those,  who,  in  countries  far  away,  "  sat  in 
darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death." 

Then  came  the  Christmas  Eve.  The  cloak,  the  scarlet  cloak 
had  arrived,  directed  for  Herbert,  and  his  eyes  kindled  with  joy 
when  Mrs.  Clifford  put  it  on,  wrapping  it  round  her  black  satin 
dress,  which  showed  all  its  warm  beauty  to  perfection. 

"  Widow  Jones's  son  is  waiting  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  a  servant 
to  Herbert,  after  tea. 

"  Show  him  into  the  dining-room,"  replied  Herbert.  "  Now, 
mamma,  you  must  come,  and,  Mar}^,  you  must  come  !" 

"  I  think  we  had  better  not,"  said  Mrs.  Clifford.  "  J  ^  will 
nave  quite  enough  to  encounter  in  the  red  cloak  without  i  you 
can  tell  us  about  it  afterward." 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  186 

""  Perhaps  that  will  be  best,"  said  Herbert,  and  he  went  out 
alone  :  he  was  gone  a  long  time  :  at  length  he  returned. 

"  Well,  what  of  the  cloak  ?"  asked  ISIrs.  Clifford. 

"  0,  mamma,  I  am  glad  you  did  not  come  !  I  could  not  even 
tell  you  all.  I  am  sure  I  love  that  good  fellow,  and  I  think  he 
loves  me.  I  could  not  get  him  to  believe  at  fii'st  that  it  was  to 
be  for  his  mother,  and  a  present  from  him ;  he  said  he  had 
never  thought  to  see  her  look  like  that !  And  when  he  found 
out  that  he  was  really  to  take  it  away,  he  said,  '  I  haven't  got 
any  words,  sir,  but  'tis  a  comfort  we  will  never  see  the  end  of !' 
I  don't  believe,  Mary,  any  one  but  you  could  have  thought  of 
it ;  it  was  the  very  best  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to  give  to 
Jem,  and  I  am  sure  he  thinks  so  too." 

On  Christmas  day,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  CHfford  always  provided 
some  presents  for  their  children.  These  presents  were  always 
placed  on  the  breakfast-table ;  and  a  large  brown  paper  parcel 
lay,  this  Christmas  morning,  beside  Herbert's  plate. 

"  0,  papa,  what  a  parcel !"  said  Herbert,  as,  impatient  of  all 
delay,  he  slipped  off  the  string,  and  unfolded  the  paper.  "  0 
Willy  !  0  papa  !  why,  it 's  a  coat  for  old  Willy — what  a  beauti- 
ful coat !  why,  it 's  the  very  thing  I  used  to  fancy  him  wearing 
— a  blue  coat,  with  brass  buttons ;  how  delightful !  Now  he 
will  ha^'e  a  coat,  after  all !"  and  Herbert  turned,  with  his  kiss  of 
grateful  love  to  his  parents.  "  I  should  not  have  cared  for  any 
thing  so  much  as  that,  papa;  I  shall  take  it  myself  this  afternoon !" 

As  Herbert  entered  the  church-yard,  at  his  parent's  side,  who 
should  he  see  coming  down  the  snowy  path  from  the  other  end 
but  widow  Jones,  in  her  red  cloak,  with  little  Mercy  at  her 
side,  and  Jem  at  a  short  distance,  in  full  view  of  his  mother's 
bright  appearance.  The  old  woman  saw  her  young  benefactor, 
and  she  courtesied  so  low,  that  her  red  cloak  rested  on  the  pure 
white  snow.    Herbert  bowed,  with  his  heart-warming  smile ; 


186  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

and  the  rich  and  the  poor  entered  the  house  of  prayer,  there  to 
kneel  before  the  God  and  Father  of  all,  who  is  rich  unto  all 
who  call  upon   Him. 

When  luncheon  was  over,  Herbert  set  off  to  old  Willy.  The 
old  man  had  had  his  Christmas  dinner,  of  roast  beef  and  plum- 
pudding,  sent  from  the  Hall ;  and  was  seated  beside  his  fire  in 
peace,  with  his  "  Book"  to  talk  with  hira.  Herbert  was  wise, 
and  laying  the  parcel  aside,  he  firot  made  old  Willy  fully  under- 
stand that  all  his  money  was  gone  for  those  who  had  no  Bibles, 
and  that  it  would  buy  for  them,  not  one  Bible  alone,  but  many 
Bibles ;  and  when  the  old  man  clearly  understood,  and  had 
fully  taken  in  the  joy  of  this  blessed  thought,  then  Herbert  told 
him  that  his  father  had  bought  a  coat  on  purpose  for  him. 
The  old  man  rose,  and  took  it  with  a  bow  of  grateful  reverence 
to  the  elder  Squire  wlio  had  sent,  and  the  younger  who  had 
brought  such  clothing  for  him  !  and  then  he  wondered  at  its 
beauty,  and  thought  it  little  fitting  for  such  as  him  to  wear,  and 
promised  noA  er  to  put  on  his  old  coat  again,  but  to  wear  his 
Sunday  dre^s  on  common  days,  and  his  new  coat  on  Sundays. 
And  Herbert,  quite  satisfied,  returned  to  his  home. 

Meanwhile,  at  the  farm,  William  in  the  gig  had  brought 
Rose  from  her  school.  She  had  received  there  the  tidings  of 
the  birth  of  another  brother  in  her  home,  and  her  first  eager 
visit  was  to  the  cradle  of  the  sleeping  infant.  Rose  became  at 
once  the  infant's  nurse,  and  full  occupation  and  delight  were 
found  in  this  new  interest.  The  day  for  the  christening  had 
been  put  ofi'  till  her  return,  that  she  might  be  present  on  the 
occasion.  Farmer  Smith  had  decided  on  the  infant's  name, 
which  was  to  be  Timothy ;  "  For  by  what  I  can  make  out,"  said 
faraier  Smith,  "  it  is  him  of  whom  we  read  in  the  Bible  as  hav- 
ing taken  most  to  the  Scriptures  from  a  child  !"  so  the  infant 
boy  was  baptized  by  the  name  of  Timothy,  which,  according  to 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  1S*1 

the  custom  of  using  short  names  at  the  farm,  was  contracted  to 
Tim,  and  little  Tim  soon  became  an  object  of  interest  to  all 
around  him. 

Mercy  too  kept  a  merry  Christmas  in  her  cottage  home  ;  her 
grandmother's  red  cloak  was  the  delight  of  her  eyes  ;  she  had 
also  knitted  a  pair  of  new  stockings  for  her  grandmotlier,  and  a 
pair  for  her  uncle  Jem,  the  worsted  bought  with  the  money 
saved  by  her  uncle  Jem's  hedging  and  ditching.  And  the 
young  orphan  herself  was  now  freshly  clad  ;  she  had  run  about 
with  warm  feet  all  the  winter,  through  little  Jane's  first  effort  to 
dam  stockings  a  year  before  ;  and  now  the  last  penny  had  been 
pAid  in,  the  club-day  had  come,  and  widow  Jones,  laden  witl 
the  warm  clothing,  had  once  more  stopped  at  Mrs.  Mansfield's 
door.  Mrs.  Jones  was  had  into  the  parlor,  Jane  was  sent  for 
down  from  the  nursery,  and  Mr.  Mansfield  was  called  in  fi'om 
the  shop ;  and  blue  print  with  the  little  white  spots  upon  it, 
warm  flannel,  and  white  calico,  were  displayed  by  the  tall  old 
woman  in  her  bright  red  cloak  before  the  earnest  eyes  of  little 
Jane.  As  Jane  looked  on  in  silent  wonder,  the  full  conscious- 
ness— because  the  full  knowledge,  was  in  her  mind,  that,  but 
for  her  saved-up  pennies,  those  warm  garments  would  not  have 
been  bought  for  the  orphan  Mercy;  it  was  a  feeling  to  enlarge 
a  child's  young  heart,  and  to  give  added  strength  to  her  char- 
acter— resulting  from  a  continued  effort  with  its  realized  attain- 
ment. And  so  the  little  orphan  was  clothed,  warmly  and  well 
as  when  her  careful  parents  watched  over  her  infant  years.  And 
the  passer-by  through  the  village  lanes  mJght  see  her,  with  the 
rosy  hue  of  health  upon  her  cheek,  braving  the  freezing  air, 
which  had  no  power  to  chill  her  now ; — ths  passer-by  might  see 
the  happy  child,  sometimes  on  her  cottage  door-step,  scattering 
down  the  crumbs  from  the  frugal  meal,  while  the  expectant 
robin,  peeping  from  the  thatched  eaves,  heard  her  sing — 


188  MINISTERING    CHILDREN. 

"  Little  bird,  with  bosom  red, 
"Welcome  to  my,  humble  shed  I 
Doubt  not,  little  though  there  be, 
But  I'll  cast  a  crumb  to  thee!" 

— and  then  without  fear  flew  down  to  pick  the  crumbs  at  hef 
(eet.  Or  she  might  be  seen  hastening  up  the  hill,  just  to  light 
up  dame  Clarke's  little  fire,  which  the  poor  old  woman  was  too 
feeble  to  manage  ;  or  sitting  beside  it  with  her  of  an  evening- 
time  awhile,  to  read  to  her  from  the  Holy  Book — whose  words 
the  old  woman  oould  not  read  herself :  or  coming  back  on  her 
gi-andmother's  washing-day,  from  her  early  visit  to  the  poor 
old  woman,  with  the  things  she  had  found,  that  she  and  her 
grandmother  could  wash  with  their  own.  Thus  was  Mercy,  to 
whom  little  Jane  had  ministered,  a  ministering  child  herself. 

And  now,  before  we  leave  that  happy  Christmas  time,  we  will 
go  back  and  pay  one  more  visit  in  the  town — not  to  poor  little 
Patience ;  no,  we  cannot  climb  the  dark  staircase  to  her  cold 
empty  home ;  some  one  else  must  do  that — and  some  one 
was  coming  who  would,  but  not  till  that  happy  Christmas  was 
past ;  poor  Patience  must  spend  that,  as  she  had  spent  all  before 
it — in  wretchedness  and  want ;  no  time  brought  her  gladness 
as  yet ;  but  the  star  was  soon  coming  in  the  dark  cloud  for  poor 
Patience,  and  she  will  have  comfort  enough  by-and-by — 
though  for  all  who  dwell  in  this  world,  the  cloud  must  still 
darken  the  bright  stars  sometimes  ;  but  for  such  as  little  Ruth, 
who  are  gone  to  dwell  in  heaven,  all  darkness  and  trouble  ia 
passed  away  for  ever  ! 

Where  then  are  we  going  if  not  to  see  poor  Patience  ?  You 
are  going  to  look  info  a  shoemaker's  home,  and  to  see  what  wag 
doing  there.  We  must  pass  Mr.  Mansfield's  corner  shop,  go 
down  the  short  street  at  the  top  of  which  it  stands,  turn  to  the 
right,  and  then  again  down  a  narrow  street  to  the  left,  and  there 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  189 

half-way  down  the  street,  you  will  see  "  Boot  and  Shoe  maker" 
written  up.  The  worthy  shoemaker,  who  Hved  in  this  narrow 
street,  was  once  in  a  much  larger  way  of  business,  but  his  poor 
est  days  had  been  his  best  days,  and  what  he  had  lost  of  this 
world's  wealth  he  had  gained  a  hundred  fold  in  enduring  riches 
—  •even  the  love  of  God,  which  made  Heaven  his  hom.e.  He 
li  red  with  his  wife  and  children  in  one  back  room,  with  a  small 
shop  in  front :  but  he  was  so  sickly  in  health  and  so  poor,  that 
he  could  not  have  kept  even  that  one  room,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  his  eldest  son,  who  was  gone  abroad,  and  who  was  always 
sending  money  to  his  parents  at  home.  The  second  son  lived 
with  his  parents,  and  was  serving  his  apprenticeship  to  a  book- 
binder. Little  Ephraim,  the  third  son,  went  to  a  day-school ; 
Manasseh  was  a  baby  in  the  cradle.  Little  Ephraim  was  troubled 
because  the  baby  slept  in  the  cradle  instead  of  joining  in  family 
prayer ;  so  when  it  was  over  one  day  he  went  to  the  cradle,  and 
kneeling  down  by  the  «ide,  he  put  the  baby's  hands  together, 
saying,  as  he  held  them,  "  Lord,  teach  Manasseh  to  pray !" 
There  was  also  a  little  girl  named  Agnes,  who  went  to  a  day- 
school,  and  waited  on  her  mother  at  home. 

It  was  Christm^as-eve  in  the  shoemaker's  home  ;  for  the  blessed 
Ohnstmas  comes  to  all,  to  rich  and  poor,  to  young  and  old, 
telling  J  ear  after  year  of  the  Saviour's  love,  to  win  them  to 
seek  him  while  yet  he  may  be  found — to  call  upon  him  while 
he  is  near.  It  was  Christmas-eve  in  the  shoemaker's  home,  the 
father  7/as  out,  and  the  mother,  with  little  Agnes  to  help,  was 
making  haste  to  get  all  in  readiness  for  Christmas-day.  There 
was  no  ))lum-pudding  or  roast  beef  preparing  for  the  Christmas 
dinner ;  but  the  Missionary  box  !  feel  its  weight,  and  do  not 
think  it  is  heavy  with  pence  only,  no,  there  are  sixpences  and 
shillingvi,  not  few  in  number — ^the  thank-offerings  to  God  of  the 
Bhoem'>''.er's  family.     The   children  will  sit   round  the  table ; 


190  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

each  cliild  will  have  a  little  farthing  candle  to  burn,  all  at  once, 
making  a  bright  light,  then  the  box  will  be  opened,  and  they 
will  count  up  the  money  that  they  have  gathered  for  the  poor 
heathen,  to  help  in  sending  good  ministers  to  them,  to  teach 
tliem  to  know  that  blessed  Saviour,  whose  birth  we  celebrate  oe 
Christmas-day.  The  mother  was  busy,  getting  on  with  hei 
cleaning  up,  when  she  heard  a  loud  knock  at  the  door.  "  Run, 
Agnes,  and  see  who  is  there,"  said  the  mother.  The  door  was 
at  the  end  of  a  long  passage ;  presently  Agnes  came  back,  and 
her  book-binding  brother  with  her,  and  a  large  brown  paper 
parcel  in  his  hand. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  loud  knock,  mother  ?"  asked  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  who  was  it  ?" 

"  Why,  it  was  a  friend  of  yours,  only  he  did  not  wish  his 
name  mentioned  ;  he  brought  a  little  Christmas  present  for  you 
with  his  love." 

"  For  me !"  said  the  mother,  "  a  friend  of  mine  !  Did  you 
know  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  and  so  would  you  if  you  had  seen  him ;  but  I 
am  not  going  to  tell  you  as  he  did  not  wish  it,  so  it's  no  use 
asking  me ;  and  as  for  Agnes,  she  saw  no  one  but  me,  so  she 
can't  tell." 

"  What  can  it  be  ?"  said  the  mother,  and  wiping  her  hands 
and  arms  she  came  up  to  the  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  where  Agnes  and  Ephraim  stood  all  expectation  by  their 
elder  brother's  side.  The  string  was  untied — for  the  shoe- 
maker's careful  wife  would  be  sorry  to  cut  a  knot  and'waste  an 
inch  of  string,  the  paper  was  unfolded,  and  five  small  parcels 
tumbled  out.  "  0  mother  !"  said  Agnes.  "  0  dear  !  0  dear !" 
Baid  little  Ephraim.  The  first  parcel  was  a  quarter  of  a  pound 
of  tea ;  the  next,  half  a  pound  of  coffee  ;  the  next,  a  pound  of 
sugar;  the  next,  a  pound  of  currants  ;  ard  the  last,  a  pound  of 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  191 

pliims.  The  mother  looked  hard  at  her  book-binding  boy — 
"  Now,  Bob,  if  I  don't  believe  that  it's  you,  and  no  one  else,  has 
been  getting  all  these  things  for  me  ?" 

"  Well,  mother,  I  could  not  stand  your  having  no  Christmaa 
pudding,  and  I  managed  to  earn  it  all  at  over  hours  !" 

So,  to  the  children's  delight,  and  the  mother's  pleasure,  a 
great  Christmas  pudding  was  prepared,  and  the  whole  family  had 
their  Christmas  feast  of  the  provision  made  by  the  book-bind- 
ing boy. 

And  so  the  Christmas  came  and  went.  And  some  young 
hearts,  and  some  that  were  no  longer  young  in  earthly  youth, 
loved  still  better  than  before,  the  "  Holy  Child  Jesus,"  who  was 
bom  for  their  sakes,  an  infant  in  the  stable  of  Bethlehem. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

Now  the  end  of  tbe  commandment  is  ohakitt  ont  of  a  pare  heart,  and  a  good  eoo< 

science,  and  Mth  unfeigned."—!  Tim.  i.  6. 

/CHRISTMAS  had  passed  away,  New  Year's  Day  was  over  and 
^gone,  and  the  cold  snowy  month  of  January  slowly  drawing 
to  a  close.  Rose  had  returned,  for  her  last  half  year,  to  school. 
And  poor  little  Patience  had  taken  her  place  again  in  the 
second  class,  among  her  companions ;  the  mistress  said  it  was 
a  disgrace  for  her  to  be  still  only  in  the  second  class,  when 
many  j^oonger  than  she,  had  been  months  in  the  first ;  but  no 
one  else  took  notice  of  it,  for  the  poor  child  was  so  small  and 
thin,  so  silent  and  slirinldng,  that  a  stranger  might  have  sup- 
posed her  one  of  the  youngest,  as  well  as  the  lowest,  which  she 
generally  was,  in  the  second  class  of  healthy  happy  children. 
It  was  at  this  same  time  that  a  traveling  carriage  arrived  at 
the  Hall.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clifford  were  at  the  door  to  receive 
their  guests ;  a  rather  elderly  gentleman  stepped  out  of  the 
carriage,  and  then  handed  from  it  a  young  slight  girl,  whom 
Mrs.  Clifford  received  with  a  mother's  welcome.  The  hall- 
'Soor  was  shut,  and  the  carriage  drove  round  to  the  stables. 
This  young  visitor  was  the  only  child  of  Mrs.  CKfford's  earliest 
friend  ;  that  friend  had  died  some  years  before  in  England,  and 
the  father  had  gone  to  reside  with  this  his  only  child  abroad, 
more  from  change  of  scene  than  from  any  necessity  of  health. 
A  mother's  sheltering  tenderness  had  passed   away  from  her, 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  193 

just  when  she  began  to  realize  the  power  and  blessing  of  it. 
But  that  mother  had  led  her  from  her  earliest  years  to  her  God 
and  Saviour,  whose  love  is  more  than  a  mother's  love,  and  whose 
presence  can  never  be  taken  away ;  and  the  motherless  child 
knew  where  to  turn  in  her  heart's  desolation  ;  she  had  been  led 
so  constantly  to  her  Savioui'^  feet  that  it  was  no  strange  place 
to  her,  she  had  learned  to  tt-1  the  wishes  of  her  infant  life  to 
Him,  to  caiTy  to  Him  her  v-.  ildhood's  hopes  and  fears,  and  now 
when  bereft  on  earth  she  turned  Tsnth  her  aching  heart  to 
heaven ;  and  the  love  of  God,  that  filled  the  blank  in  life  for 
her,  filled  also  her  life  with  sympathy  for  all.  After  her  mother's 
death  she  had  little  intercourse  with  any  but  her  father,  and  this 
older  companionship,  with  her  mother's  loss,  had  made  her 
grave  beyond  her  years ;  her  face  was  full  of  thought ;  and  when 
she  smiled  it  seemed  rather  the  expression  of  her  tenderness  for 
those  she  loved,  or  pleasure  in  others'  mirth,  than  the  bright 
gleam  of  personal  merriment.  On  the  eager  glee  of  others, 
like  herself  in  childhood,  she  seemed  to  look  with  distant  pleas- 
ure ;  but  wherever  sorrow  rested  she  drew  near — as  if  she  felt 
her  call  on  earth  lay  there.  Young  as  she  was,  she  had  drunk 
deep  of  the  cup  of  grief ;  death  and  separation  were  words,  the 
reality  of  which  her  hourly  life  still  learned  ;  but  she  had  tasted 
also  the  love  that  can  sweeten  the  bitterest  trial,  and  her  sense 
of  joy  was  still  deeper  than  her  feeling  of  sadness.  She,  herself, 
was  comforted  in  all  things — how  could  she  then  but  long  to 
comfort  others  !  There  was  no  gloom  in  her  sweet  gravity,  but 
a  depth  of  tenderness,  an  assurance  of  sympathy,  that  made  her 
very  presence  soothe.  Those  who  shrank  most  from  the  thought 
of  intrusion  in  their  grief  would  welcome  her,  nor  wnsh  to  turn 
from  meeting  her  calm  expressive  eye,  which  seemed  rather  to 
take  in  the  object  on  which  it  looked,  than  to  search  into  that 
object  with  penetrating  inquiry. 

9 


194  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Miss  Clifford  had  been  like  an  elder  sister  to  her ;  no  place  waa 
like  Miss  Clifford's  side  to  her,  and  no  one  else  had  so  much 
power  to  waken  the  silent  gladness  of  feeling,  and  the  graceful 
play  of  thought — that  had  slept  because  there  had  been  none  to 
call  them  forth,  or  give  responsive  tones ;  but  even  when  with 
her  sister  friend,  her  words  were  more  often  the  earnest  words 
that  told  of  earnest  thought.  She  looked  upon  the  world  around 
her,  not  as  on  a  picture,  as  childhood  for  the  most  part  beholds  it 
— searching  no  deeper  than  its  suiface-hues  of  light  and  shadow, 
but  as  one  who  had  already  learned  the  deep  realities  that  live 
beneath  the  pictured  scene.  When  her  eye  rested  on  sorrow's 
aspect  she  instantly  estimated  the  depth  of  suffering  by  her  own 
sense  of  grief ;  and  when  she  had  tried  to  comfort  or  relieve,  she 
still  retained  the  feelinij  of  the  sorrow  being:  like  her  own — not 
to  be  forgotten.  Yet  sometimes  it  was  her's  to  sow  the  seeds  of 
purest  joy  in  the  heart  that  grief  had  filled.  Her  friend.  Miss 
Clifford,  had  known  sorrow  and  want  only  as  she  had  sought 
them  out  to  relieve  them ;  the  feeling  they  called  forth  in  her 
was,  how  best  to  aid  and  comfort ;  and  when  want  was  replen- 
ished, and  sadness  smiled  on  her,  she  passed  away  and  felt  only 
the  joy  of  relieving.  The  one  seemed  to  soothe  by  receiving  the 
sorrows  of  others  into  her  own  deep  sympathy ;  the  other  to 
brighten  by  shedding  her  own  light  of  peace  on  the  troubled. 
It  was  as  one  of  earth's  loveliest  sights  to  see  the  two,  so  young 
in  years,  with  all  the  world  could  offer  of  attraction  spread  around 
them,  intent  in  converse  how  best  to  use  the  blessed  power 
intrusted  to  them — ^to  brighten  the  sorrowful,  and  guide  them 
to  the  holy  heaven  to  which  their  own  youthful  steps  weie 
bound.  Such  as  these  lead  an  angel's  life  on  earth ,  and 
ministering  angels  love  to  watch  and  tend  them  unseen.  And 
truly  for  such  as  these,  the  wilderness  of  many  a  sorrowful 
heart  is  made  glad  ;  and   the   desert   of  many  a   sinful   soul 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  195 

rejoices  and  blossoms  as  the  rose — planted  and  watered  by  their 
prayerful  efforts,  to  which  God  vouchsafes  the  increase. 

The  young  guest  at  the  Hail  was  anxious  to  lose  no  time  be- 
fore taking  a  drive  to  the  neighboiing  town  to  sec  her  old  nurse, 
fi'om  whom  she  bad  never  been  separated  till  she  left  England  with 
her  father,  when  her  mother's  faithful  maid  became  her  attendant 
The  first  suitable  day  was  chosen,  and  as  Patience  was  creeping 
back  over  the  snow  from  school,  a  few  minutes  after,  four  o'clock, 
Mr.  Clifford's  carriage  drove  up  and  stopped  beside  her  at  the  dooi 
of  the  house  where  she  lived,  No.  9  Ivy-l^ne,  from  which  the  old 
nurse's  last  letters  had  been  dated.  "  Does  Mrs.  Brame  live  here  ?" 
asked  the  footman  of  the  child.  "  Yes,"  said  Patience,  looking 
up.     The  man  went  in,  and  Patience  slowly  followed. 

"  How  unhappy  that  little  girl  looked  !"  said  Mrs.  Clifford's 
young  guest. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  neatly-dressed  child  now  gone  in  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Clifford. 

"  Yes,  she  looked  as  if  she  had  never  smiled  !" 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  I  was  thinking  how  clean  and  comfort- 
able she  appeared." 

Mrs.  Brame  lived  at  the  top  of  the  large  old  house  ;  and  though 
aged  now,  and,  for  the  most  ^jart,  slow  of  movement,  she  de- 
scended the  stairs  almost  as  quickly  as  the  footman  had  run  up ; 
and  tears,  and  smiles,  and  words  of  astonishment  and  gladness 
were  the  old  woman's  welcome  to  the  child  whose  infancy  had 
been  cradled-in  her  arms,  whose  opening  hfe  had  been  her  one 
object  of  interest,  and  who  through  years  of  absence  had  still  re- 
tained the  entire  possession  of  her  nurse's  heart,  which  had  never 
glowed  with  affection  towards  any  other  object  through  life. 

For  one  whole  hour  the  devoted  nurse  was  to  be  allowed  the 
sole  possession  of  the  child  so  precious  to  her !  But  as  the 
time  drew  near  its  close,  the  youthful  Lady  Gertrude  asked  her 


196  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

nurse  about  the  little  girl  whom  she  had  seen  enter  the  same 
house.  Nurse  Brame  told  her  sad  story,  and  her  young  listener 
sighing,  said,  "  I  thought  she  looked  as  if  her  heart  were  empty  !" 
"  Ah  !  it 's  worse  than  that !"  replied  nurse  Brame.  "  I  doubt 
if  she  has  a  heart !  Why  let  happen  what  will,  I  have  nevel 
seen  her  shed  a  tear !  and  if  I  have  given  her  once,  I  have 
twenty  times,  just  because  I  could  not  bear  to  see  such  a  miser- 
able looking  child — but  I  don't  believe  she  cares  a  bit  more 
about  me  than  if  I  had  never  shown  her  a  kindness  !" 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  her  again  !"  said  the  young  Lady  Ger- 
trude. 

"  It 's  not  the  least  use  !"  replied  the  old  nurse.  "  I  have  tried 
it  fifty  times,  there  's  no  getting  any  thing  out  of  her  !" 

"  I  must  see  her  again  if  she  is  here  still !"  said  the  Lady 
Gertrude,  "  I  will  go  to  her  room  and  see  her  there." 

The  old  nurse  went  reluctantly  to  inquire,  in  the  hope  of  find- 
ing that  Patience  was  not  within.  But  she  returned,  saying, 
the  child  was  alone  •  adding,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance,  "  If 
you  won't  be  pacified  without  going,  w^hy  then  I  must  stand  out- 
side her  door,  for  if  I  were  to  let  you  see  that  child's  father,  I 
should  never  forgive  myself !" 

The  Lady  Gertrude  made  no  answer,  but  followed  her  nurse 
down  the  first  flight  of  stairs  to  the  room  where  poor  Patience 
dwelt ;  there  was  not  much  evidence  of  any  "  pacifying"  being 
needed  in  her  noiseless  step  of  youthful  dignity,  and  her  calm, 
earnest  eye ;.  but  her  old  nurse  had  always  been  wont  to  sup- 
pose the  necessity  of  "  pacifying,"  as  a  reason  for  yielding  to  her 
young  lady's  gentle  yet  decided  will.  The  old  nurse  took  her 
post  to  listen  and  watch  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  the  Lady 
Gertrude  entered  the  room.  One  glance  round  the  apartment 
was  sufl[icient  to  show  that  no  mother's  care,  no  mother's  pres- 
ence was  known  there ;  and  a  rush  of  almost  sisterly  feeling 


p.  li 


MIKIBTEKING     CHILDKEN.  197 

passed  through  the  heart  of  the  motherless  child  of  rank  and 
fortune,  as  she  looked  on  the  motherless  child  of  want  and  sor- 
row. Patience  was  standing  with  her  usual  expression  of  dull 
and  hopeless  wretchedness.  The  young  Lady  Gertrude  went 
up  to  her,  and  said,  in  her  low  tone  of  tenderness,  "  Dear  little 
girl,  you  are  not  happy !"  She  asked  no  question,  she  called 
for  no  reply,  but  she  gave  expression  to  her  own  sense  of  a  fact,  a 
simple  fact,  that  none  had  seemed  to  notice  before.  Patience  took 
up  her  little  white  hnen  apron,,  and  hid  her  face  in  it,  and  wept. 
"  Do  not  cry,  dear,"  said  the  Lady  Gertrude,  "  I  want  to  make  you 
happy.  Are  you  not  cold  without  a  fire  ?"  and  she  laid  ber  hand 
on  the  chilblained  hands  of  the  child.  "  Yes,  you  are  very  cold. 
If  you  have  half-a-crown  from  my  purse,  then  you  could  get  some 
coal  and  some  wood,  and  make  a  fire  when  I  am  gone,  could 
you  not  ?"  But  Patience  still  only  hid  her  face  and  wept. 
Warm  tears  they  were,  meltiug  the  child's  young  heart  so  early 
frozen,  and  leaving  its  surface  to  receive  the  fii'st  impression  of 
human  tenderness,  which  no  after-time  could  efiace  or  impair. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Jesus  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child. 
■     "  He  wants  you  to  love  Him,  and  be  His  child,  that  He  may 
oake  you  happy.     Will  you  love  Him,  and  try  to  pray  to  Him  f 
if  you  do  He  will  be  sure  to  comfort  you." 

"  Yes,J'  said  the  still  weeping  child. 

"I  shall  have  to  go  away  directly  ;  will  you  not  look  at  me, 
that  you  may  remember  me  ?  Because  I  am  your  friend,  and  I 
love  you,  and  shall  often  think  about  you  !" 

Patience  looked  up,  but  the  time  was  gone  ;  the  carriage  waa 
already  within  hearing.  Then  despairing  to  comfort  the  child, 
and  feeling  mlj,  at  that  moment,  the  sorrow  she  could  not  bear 
away,  the  child  of  rank  put  her  arm  around  the  child  of  poverty, 
pressed  a  kiss  of  tenderness  upon  her  forehead,  and,  putting  the 


198  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

half-crown  into  her  hand,  turned  away  in  answer  to  her  nurse's 
knock  on  the  half-shut  door.  "  Do  be  kind  to  her !"  said  the 
Lady  Gertrude,  as  she  took  leave  of  her  nurse,  and  hastened  down 
the  stairs ;  and  in  a  minute  more  she  was  driving  fast  away. 

Mrs.  Chtibrd  observed  the  shade  of  sadness  on  the  face  of 
her  young  charge,  and  naturally  concluding  that  she  felt  leav* 
ing  her  old  nurse,  immediately  planned  in  her  own  mi  ad  to 
obtain  the  consent  of  her  young  visitor's  father,  and  then  send 
for  the  old  nurse  to  stay  at  the  Hall.  But  far  other  were  the 
thoughts  of  that  gentle  girl :  her  heart  was  lingering  where  she 
felt  she  had  left  an  unsupplied  want,  an  unsoothed  sorrow — 
lingering  with  the  motherless  child  in  that  bare  and  desolate 
room.  She  was  thinking  that  she  had  done  nothing,  worse  than 
nothing — had  awakened  the  child's  sorrow,  and  left  her  uncom- 
forted.  "  Why,"  she  thought,  "  was  I  so  determined  to  speak 
to  her!  How  much  better  if  I  had  not  attempted  what  I 
could  not  do  !"  Did  she  not  know  then  how  often  the  eye  re- 
turns to  look  again  upon  the  first,  the  only  star,  that  has  sud- 
denly appeared  to  light  up  the  gloom  of  a  darkened,  lowering 
sky  ?  Did  she  not  know  how,  when  in  all  the  lonely  earth  no 
music  wakes,  if  suddenly  the  nightingale's  rich  melody  fall 
upon  the  ear,  the  very  heart  is  hushed  to  listen  and  recall  the 
strain  ?  Did  she  not  know  how  dear,  how  unlike  all  that  follow, 
is  the  first  violet,  gathered  where  the  sunbeam  has  warmed  the 
yet  wintery  bank,  and  called  for  ththe  herald  of  spring  ?  Yes. 
she  knew  that  these  things  were  so ;  but  she  knew  not  that  her 
visit  to  the  child  of  want  and  suflJering  had  been  like  them  ; 
and  so  she  passed  away  in  sadness,  and  thought  she  had  Icfl 
no  blessing — how  many  such  misgiving  fears  will  the  light  of 
eternity,  when  it 'falls  on  life  past,  dispel  for  ever  ! 

Nurse  Brame  watched  the  carriage  swiftly  disappearing  in 
the  dimly-lighted  lane,  then  turned  within  again,  and  taking 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  199 

tip  her  candle,  slowly  reascended  the  staircase.  The  earnest 
tone  in  which  the  words,  "  Do  be  kind  to  her !"  had  been 
uttered,  left  them  impressed  on  the  old  woman's  heart,  and  the 
child  seemed  more  associated  with  her  young  lady  than  any 
thing  beside,  and  she  turned  into  the  room  to  speak  to  her. 

Poor  little  Patience,  when  left  alone,  had  ceased  her  tears 
for  a  minute  in  bewildered  surprise ;  then  raised  her  hand  to 
feel  where  that  kiss  had  been — to  see  if  her  forehead  still  felt 
the  same ;  it  felt  the  same,  but  she  did  not — she  had  ceased 
to  feel  alone  in  all  the  world !  She  had  met  the  first  gleam  of 
human  tenderness,  and  to  that  her  shrinking  spirit  turned. 
She  did  not  reason,  but  she  felt ;  and  feeling  hes  deeper  than 
reason,  and  often  in  a  cliild  supplies  reason's  part — the  lifeless 
chill  was  gone  from  her  heart,  its  frozen  surface  thawed  and 
left  susceptible  of  passing  impressions.  Nurse  Brame  came 
in,  and  holding  up  her  candle  to  see  the  cliild  in  the  dark 
chamber,  said,  in  a  kind  voice,  "  Here,  come  along  with  me  out 
of  this  cold  place,  and  we  will  have  some  tea  together!" 
Patience  followed,  and  was  soon  seated  on  a  stool  by  the  little 
fire-place ;  nurse  Brame  stirred  up  the  dull  coals  into  a  blaze, 
and  telling  the  cliild  to  make  haste  and  get  warm,  she  set  out 
the  little  round  table  with  her  tea-board  and  bread  and  butter ; 
and  lifting  the  kettle  on  the  fire,  sat  down  in  the  twilight  and 
watched  till  the  water  boiled.  The  substantial  slice  of  bread 
and  butter,  and  the  steaming  cup  of  sugared  tea,  brought  a 
little  color  to  the  cheek  of  the  child;  and  nurse  Brame  cut 
the  square  white  loaf  with  no  sparing  hand,  and  put  more 
water  on  uncurled  tea-leaves,  that  the  poor  child  might  be 
"  satisfied  for  once  !"  and  all  the  while  the  old  nurse  felt  as  if  she 
was  just  doing  her  young  lady's  will. 

"  There,  now  you  are  neither  cold  nor  hungry  at  last !"  said 
nurse  Brame,  "  and  you  had  better  go  down  and  go  to  bed,  and 


200  MINISTERING     CHILDREN, 

iliftre  's  no  doubt  you  will  sleep  sound  enough !"  Patiencft 
returned  to  her  cold  dark  room,  and  crept  "^^o  the  side  of  the 
heap  of  rags  that  made  her  bed ;  but  she  too  remembered  the 
lady's  words,  and  her  gentle  inquiry,  "  Will  you  try  and  pray  ?" 
led  the  child,  as  by  the  silken  bood  of  constraining  love,  to  make 
her  first  faint  efi'ort.  Then  taking  from  her  pocket  the  treasured 
half-crown,  she  clasped  it  tight  in  her  hand,  and,  lying  down, 
was  soon  asleep. 

Nurse  Brame  was  sitting  over  her  decaying  fire  that  night, 
her  candle  was  out,  and  it  was  her  usual  early  hour  of  rest ; 
but  she  was  sitting  as  if  watching  the  fading  embers,  and 
thinking  on  the  past  events  of  the  day — her  unexpected  and 
joyful  surprise  in  her  Lady  Gertrude's  visit,  and  then  the  child 
— but  the  child,  the  poor  child,  came  like  a  shadow  across  the 
sunbeam's  track.  Nurse  Brame  had  never  learned  the  pure 
and  simple  joy  of  doing  good :  she  had  showed  many  a  little 
kindness  to  the  desolate  child,  but  it  was,  as  she  herself  ex- 
pressed it,  because  she  could  not  bear  to  see  so  miserable  a 
thing — not  because  she  could  not  bear  that  silent  siiifering 
should  be,  if  unseen  !  she  thought  that  such  things  must  be, 
and  that  it  was  only  her  call  to  relieve  when  forced  upon  her 
notice.  "  Out  of  sight"  was  "  out  of  mind"  with  old  nurse 
Brame,  therefore  a  gift  from  her  was  nothing  more  to  the 
receiver,  than  the  same  gift  picked  up  on  the  highway  side — 
it  came  as  no  living  witness,  therefore  it  left  no  living  glow  :  the 
receiver's  feeling  was  as  shallow  and  transient  as  the  feeling  of 
the  giver.  But  now  the  link  between  the  old  nurse  and  the 
child  had  changed — ^it  was  no  longer  the  transient  sight  of 
v/ant,  but  the  feeling  of  her  young  lady's  interest.  Nurse 
Brame  was  sitting  in  the  dim  firelight,  thinking  upon  how 
much  it  would  be  necessary  for  her  to  do  for  this  unhappy  and, 
to  her,  uji interesting  child — uninteresting  not  to  her  alone,  bul 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  201 

to  all  save  the  one  who  had  reached  the  child's  buried  heart ! 
the  old  nurse  felt  she  must  be  kind  to  her ;  she  would  not 
neglect  a  wish  of  her  young  lady's  for  the  world,  but  she 
wanted  to  come  to  a  conclusion  in  her  own  mind  as  to  what 
amount  of  kindness  would  be  sufficient.  She  knew  not  chau- 
ity's  indwelling  influence,  which,  far  from  consisting  in  this 
or  that  act,  is  the  very  atmosphere  in  which  the  spirit  that  pos- 
sesses it,  lives  and  moves  and  has  its  being  !  While  so  ponder- 
ing, nurse  Brame  heard  a  hasty  knock  on  her  door,  and  looking 
round  a  little  startled,  the  woman  who  rented  the  house,  letting 
out  its  rooms  to  lodgers,  and  living  herself  on  the  gr'ound  floor, 
opened  the  door  and  came  in.  "  I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  said 
the  woman,  "  what  I  am  to  do  !  I  have  just  heard — that  pest  of 
a  man  is  off  to  escape  the  constables  ;  I  have  not  had  a  farthing 
of  rent  for  five  weeks,  and  what  is  left  in  the  room  won't  pay 
me  a  quarter  of  that ;  but  such  as  there  is,  I  shall  make  the 
most  I  can  of  it,  and  glad  enough  to  get  rid  of  him.  But  what 
to  do  with  the  child  ?  I  can  see  nothing  for  her  but  the  work- 
house !"  Now  nurse  Brame  thought  the  work-house  next  in  dis- 
grace to  the  prison  itself;  and  the  question  instantly  arose  in 
her  mind,  what  would  her  young  Lady  Gertrude  say  when  she 
saw  her  again  and  asked  for  the  child,  if  she  found  that  the 
next  day  she  had  been  carried  off"  to  the  work-house  !  Nurse 
Brame  did  not  consider  where  the  disgrace  of  the  work-house 
lay — whether  with  those  who  could  do  nothing  to  support 
themselves,  or  whether,  not  rather  with  those  who  suffered  the 
young  and  helpless,  or  the  old  and  feeble,  to  be  carried  off  and 
nourished  by  the  forced  contributions  of  others.  Nurse  Brame 
considered  the  work-house,  in  some  way  or  other,  to  be  a  dis- 
grace ;  and  according  to  the  readiest  and  most  general  custom, 
she  associated  that  disgrace  with  the  result,  and  not  the  cause 
of  that  result,  and  exclaimed,  "  Is  there  nothing  but  the  work- 


202  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

HOUSE  !"  "  I  can  think  of  nothing  else,"  replied  the  woman.  Then 
suddenly  within  the  mind  of  old  nurse  Brame  rose  the  vision  of 
the  child,  as  she  had  been  seated  that  evening  on  the  stool  by 
the  fireside ;  the  stool  was  still  there,  but  the  child  was  gone. 
Why  might  not  that  warm  comfortable  room  become  the  child'.' 
home  ?  Nm'se  Brame  might  feed  the  worse  than  orphan  and 
yet  have  enough  for  herself — and  she  knew  this  ;  the  child  was 
clothed  in  the  school,  and  rent  of  room,  firing  and  candle, 
would  ^aave  cost  no  more.  All  this  passed  before  the  mind  of 
old  nurse  Brame  ;  but  the  motive  that  influenced  her  thoughts 
was  one  of  earthly  limitation,  not  of  Heaven's  boundless  char- 
ity ;  therefore  it  came  short  of  such  an  attainment,  and  she 
only  replied,  "  Well,  I  would  not  be  the  one  to  send  a  child  oft' 
to  the  WORKHOUSE !"  The  woman  stood  a  moment  considering, 
then  said,  "  I  have  a  relation  in  the  town  who  wants  a  girl,  and 
perhaps  if  I  spoke,  she  would  take  the  child ;  though  I  doubt 
if  she  would  think  her  strong  enough  for  the  place."  Now  "  a 
place"  to  old  nurse  Brame  had  a  respectable  sound ;  she  con- 
sidered it  no  business  of  hers  to  find  out  what  the  place  was — 
it  was  "  a  place" — a  place  of  service  ;  a  way,  in  her  estimation, 
of  earning  an  honest  penny — little  considering  how  often  the 
"  honest  penny"  of  the  poor  is  paid  by  dishonest  hands,  who 
have  wrung  three  times  the  penny's  worth  from  the  strength 
that  has  no  redress  on  earth.  But  the  day  will  come  when  the 
God  of  the  poor  "  will  plead  their  csuse,  and. spoil  the  soul  of 
those  that  spoiled  them."  And  so  because  the  name  of  "  a  place" 
was  better  than  the  name  of  "  a  workhouse,"  nurse  Brame  made 
no  inquiry  as  to  what  the  real  thing  might  be,  but  gave  her 
judgment  in  favor  of  the  place,  saying,  "  Well,  I  am  sure  I 
would  try  for  the  place,  rather  than  send  the  poor  thing  off"  to 
the  workhouse."  Meanwhile  little  Patience,  whose  fate  seemed 
pending  above,  was  quietly  sleeping  below.     No  rest-breaking 


MINISTERING     CHILDHJSN.  203 

father  returned  to  disturb  her  slumber,  and  she  did  not  wake 
till  the  slowly  dawning  light  slione  into  her  dreary  room ;  then, 
hastily  rising,  she  looked  for  her  father — ^he  was  not  there — she 
saw  at  once  he  had  not  been  there ; ,  so  looking  again  at  her 
half-crown,  and  once- more  feeling  her  forehead  that  the  lady's 
Jips  had  kissed,  she  rose  and  dressed.  There  was  no  fire,  no 
food  ;  but  the  thought  of  spending  the  half-crown  was  not  even 
entertained — ^it  was  the  lady's  gift !  the  sign  that  made  the  past 
still  real  and  present  to  the  child ;  so  she  put  it  at  the  bottom 
of  her  pocket,  and  was  thinking  about  what  time  it  could  be, 
when  the  woman  of  the  house  came  in  and  said,  "  I  am  sorry 
for  you,  but  your  father  is  off,  no  one  knows  where,  and  he  has 
paid  me  no  rent  for  these  five  weeks,  so  I  must  just  take  what 
he  has  left,  and  hope  for  a  better  lodger ;  but  I  don't  want  to 
be  hard  upon  you,  and  if  you  think  you  would  like  to  try  ser- 
vrice  better  than  the  workhouse,  why  I  will  go  with  you  at  once 
and  see  after  a  place  that  I  know  of  ?".  Poor  little  Patience ! 
the  avalanche  of  frozen  words  fell  upon  her  heart,  still  warmed 
with  yesterday's  glow  of  feeling,  making  the  chilling  shock  the 
greater.  Again  she  hid  her  face  and  wept !  "  Poor  thing  I" 
said  the  woman  in  a  softened  tone,  "  I  am  sure  none  can  treat 
you  worse  than  your  own  father  has  done !  I  dare  say  you 
have  not  tasted  food ;  come  along  with  me  and  I  will  give  you 
some  breakfast,  and  then  we  .will  see  what  can  be  done."  So 
taldng  the  unresisting  child  by  the  arm,  she  led  her  down  stairs, 
and  gave  her  some  bread  and  butter  and  cold  tea ;  and  then 
^ter  awhile  repeated  her  question,  as  to  whether  she  would  like 
Best  to  go  to  service  or  to  the  workhouse  1  Poor  Patience  did 
not  kiiOw — both  names  were  alike  to  her — and  beginning  again 
to  cry  instead  of  answer,  she  only  wished  in  her  heart  that  the 
lady  would  but  come  again  !  She  felt  as  if  there  was  one  who 
would  not  let  her  be  left  alone  in  her  misery  !     The  woman 


204  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

seeing  that  words  were  hopeless,  tied  on  her  bonnet,  and,  fetch- 
ing the  child's  bonnet  and  cloak,  put  them  on  her,  saying,  "  Well, 
come  and  see  what  you  think  of  a  phice,"  and  again  taking  hei 
by  the  arm,  she  led  her  through  the  town  to  a  distant  narrow 
street,  stopping  at  the  door  of  a  high  house.  Patience  was  left 
in  the  passage  while  the  woman  went  in  and  talked  with  the 
mistress,  and  then  calling  Patience  in,  the  mistress  of  the  house 
asked  her  whether  she  thought  she  could  run  about  and  do  the 
work  for  her  board  and  a  shilling  a  week  ?  A  shilHng  a  week 
sounded  like  exhaustless  wealth  to  the  poor  child,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  expense  of  necessary  clothes,  and  she  answered, 
"  Yes."  So  the  woman  left  the  child,  promising  to  send  all  that 
she  found  belonging  to  her,  and  returned  well  satisfied,  to  in- 
form nurse  Brame  of  the  success  of  her  attempt. 

The  next  morning  nurse  Brame  received  a  letter  by  the  post ; 
it  was  from  her  loved  young  lady — the  old  woman  put  on  her 
spectacles,  and  read,  with  astonishment  and  delight,  that  in  the 
course  of  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Clifford's  carriage  would  take  her 
back  to  the  Hall,  to  stay  there  during  the  time  of  her  young 
lady's  visit.  The  old  woman  looked  twice  at  the  letter,  to  be 
quite  sure,  then  putting  on  her  shawl  and  bonnet  she  hurried 
out  to  buy  such  additions  to  her  wardrobe  as  she  thought 
necessary  for  so  great  an  occasion,  and  then  hurrying  home 
again,  began  to  make  preparations.  The  sun  had  set  when  the 
carriage  drove  up  to  the  door ;  the  footman  ran  up  to  summon 
Mrs.  Brame,  and  the  old  woman  stepped  down,  dressed  in  her 
neatest  and  best,  and  the  footman  carried  her  bandl^  behind 
her.  Her  young  lady  was  in  the  carriage  alone,  and  when  ^e 
old  woman  was  in  and  the  footman  waiting  for  orders,  the  Lady 
Gertrude  asked  her  nurse  whether  that  poor  child  was  at  home  ? 
"  Ah,  no,  poor  thing !  she  went  off  yesterday  to  a  place,"  replied 
Mrs.  Brarae. 


MINISTEKING     CHILDltEN.  205 

"Thai  little  girl  to  be  a  servant  1"  asked  the  young  Lady  Ger- 
trude in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  Ah,  yes,  she  is  older  than  she  has  the  look  of,  by  a  good  bit." 

"  Home,"  said  the  Lady  Gertrude,  and  the  carriage  drove  on ; 
then  turning,  she  talked  with  her  old  nurse,  till,  as  they  were 
about  to  leave  the  town,  she  suddenly,  as  if  a  thought  for  the 
first  time  crossed  her  mind,  inquired,  "  Do  you  know  where  that 
little  girl  has  gone  to  live  ?" 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  replied  nurse  Brame  ;  "  but  she 
is  gone  to  a  place — and  that 's  respectable  !  they  would  have 
sent  her  off  to  the  w^orkhouse,  but  I  set  my  face  against  having 
the  poor  thing  treated  like  that,  and  now  she  is  once  in  service 
she  must  work  her  way  as  I  and  others  have  done." 

"  But  if  she  should  not  be  happy,  who  will  know  it  ?"  asked 
the  young  Lady  Gertrude. 

"You  need  not  distress  yourself  about  that,"  replied  nurse 
Brame,  "  she  has  led  such  a  wretched  life,  that  let  service  be 
what  it  will,  it  must  be  better  than  that !" 

The  Lady  Gertrude  said  no  more,  she  felt  that  the  child  had  no 
place  in  the  heart  of  her  old  nurse,  and  from  that  time  she  never 
mentioned  her  again  ;  and  her  nurse  believed  her  satisfied,  and 
the  child  a  forgotten  thing.  In  a  fortnight  more  the  young 
visitor  and  her  father  left  the  Hall ;  and  in  the  spring  of  the 
same  year,  they -quitted  England  again  for  a  residence  abroad. 

When  Miss  Wilson  next  visited  the  school,  she  missed  Pa- 
tience, and  when  she  inquired  of  the  mistress,  she  heard  that 
the  child  had  been  forsaken  by  her  father,  and  was  gone  to  ser- 
vice. And  then  the  mistress  told  her  what  she  had  now  found 
out  about  the  life  of  misery  the  poor  forsaken  child  had  led  in 
her  home.  Miss  Wilson  felt  very  sorry,  but  it  was  too  late  now 
to  hcipe  to  do  much  ;  yet  she  could  still  go  and  see  poor  Patience 
ID  her  place  o^  service ;  and  knowing  that  Patience  had  not 


£06  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

earned  a  Bible,  she  directly  determined  to  go  and  take  her  one , 
BO  she  learnt  from  tlie  mistress  where  Patience  was  li\ing,  then 
going  to  a  shop,  she  bought  a  Bible,  and  went  on  to  find  poor- 
Patience  in  her  new  place  of  service. 

It  was  a  narrow  street,  and  when  Miss  Wilson  knocked  at 
the  door,  a  cross-looking  woman  opened  it.  Miss  "Wilson 
asked  for  her  little  scholar.  The  woman  did  not  invite  her  in, 
but  shouted  to  Patience  to  come  down,  and  then  went  herself, 
and  left  Miss  Wilson  standing  at  the  door.  Patience  came ; 
just  the  same  look  over  her  face  as  when  at  school — as  if  she 
expected  soiriething  to  be  said  to  persuade  her  to  try  and  do 
more  than  she  had  done  before.  But  Miss  Wilson  knew  the 
truth  now,  and  gladly  would  she  have  comforted  the  poor 
desolate  child — but  she  could  only  speak  to  her  at  the  door  of 
the  house ;  she  gave  Patience  the  Bible  she  had  brought  for 
her ;  Patience  took  it  and  courtesied,  but  she  did  not  speak,  and 
Miss  Wilson  could  never  forget  the  look  of  illness  in  the  poor 
child's  face.  She  went  away  feeling  very  sad  about  the  child : 
she  had  always  been  kind  to  Patience,  she  had  never  spoken 
hastily  or  severely  to  her,  but  she  had  loved  her  less  than  she 
loved  the  other  children,  and  poor  Patience  had  wanted  more 
love  than  others — not  less. 

Miss  Wilson  waited  some  weeks,  and  then  she  went  again  to  see 
Patience  in  her  place.  The  same  cross-looking  woman  opened  the 
door,  and  Miss  Wilson  asked  if  she  could  speak  to  Patience. 

"  0,  she  is  not  here,"  repHed  the  woman  ;  "  she  fell  ill  of  brain- 
fever,  and  we  had  her  carried  off  to  the  workhouse  !" 

Poor  Patience  !  she  had  no  strength  for  work ;  half-starved  as 
fihe  had  been  and  miserable,  her  feeble  limbs  could  stand  no 
labor ;  she  had  toiled  on  till  all  power  was  gone,  and  now  at 
last  she  was  in  the  workhouse  !  We  will  not  leave  her  yet, 
but  will  go  and  see  her  there.     She  was  laid  on  a  little  bed  in 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  20? 

the  sick  ward  of  the  workhouse,  and  nursed  till  the  fever  left 
her,  and  she  was  able  to  sit  up.  When  she  was  well  enough  to 
sit  up  and  walk  about  a  little,  she  was  not  sent  to  anothe 
place  of  service ;  no,  she  was  taken  two  miles  away  from  the 
town  to  a  house  in  the  countrv,  where  the  workhouse  children 
were  kept.  It  was  the  beginning  of  May  ;  the  trees  were  all  in 
bud,  and  the  hedges  growing  green,  and  the  lark  was  singing 
in  the  clear  blue  sky.  Patience  had  never  been  so  far  in  the 
country  before,  she  wished  the  drive  would  last  very  long,  for 
she  liked  it  very  much,  and  she  did  not  know  what  she  might 
find  at  the  end.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  they  stopped 
at  a  large  house  that  stood  alone.  A  strong,  kind-looking 
woman  came  out,  and  took  Patience  in,  saying,  "  Never  mind, 
my  dear,  you  will  soon  get  better  here  !"  Patience  heard  the 
words,  and  she  looked  up  at  the  strong  kind  woman  with  some- 
thing like  inquiry  and  wonder..  But  it  was  all  true,  it  was  the 
strong  kind  woman's  heart  that  spoke  in  those  first  words  to 
the  timid  stranger  child,  and  Patience  was  to  live  with  her. 
And  now  the  cold  nipping  winter  of  the  poor  child's  life  was 
gone,  and  its  bright  spring-time  began.  Yes,  its  bright  spring- 
time began  in  the  workhouse,  under  the  care  of  that  strong 
kind  woman !  Patience  began  the  next  day  to  do  a  little 
work,  but  the  woman  saw  directly  the  tired  look  came  over  her 
face,  and  made  her  leave  off".  Breakfast,  dinner,  and  tea  all 
came,  with  strengthening  food  for  Patience  ;  and  now  that  she 
was  no  longer  faint  and  hungry,  she  began  to  think  of  all  that 
she  had  heard  long  before.  And  first  ohe  got  her  little  Bible, 
and  read  to  herself,  and  she  felt  happy,  reading  all  alone, 
and  trying  to  remember  what  Miss  Wilson  said  at  the  school. 
After  a  little  while.  Patience  thought  that  what  made  lier 
happy  would  make  the  other  children  happy ;  so  in  their  phiy-'^ 
time,  she  often  persuaded  them  to  c<nne  and  sit  round  her  ;  and 


208  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

she  read  out  of  her  Bible,  and  taught  them  texts  and  hymns,  and 
read  to  them  from  her  other  little  books,  and  the  children  liked 
to  listen.  So  it  was  that  poor  Patience,  who  seemed  at  schod 
as  if  she  could  not  learn,  and  would  never  remember  any  thing, 
was  the  first  perhaps  of  all  the  children  there,  except  little 
Ruth,  to  become  a  ministering  child  to  others. 

Poor  Patience  had  never  known  a  parent's  tenderness ;  but 
she  soon  learned  to  love  the  strong  kind  woman  who  took  care 
of  all  the  workhouse  children  ;  the  woman  moved  about  quickly, 
and  spoke  fast  and  loud,  but  her  heart  was  kind,  and  Patience 
loved  her,  and  tried  to  please  her.  When  the  months  of  May 
and  June  had  passed  away,  and  Patience  was  well  again,  there 
came  a  day  of  holiday  in  the  workhouse  ;  and  the  matron  told 
Patience  that  she  might  go  to  the  town  and  see  her  friends. 
Patience  had  no  fiiends  except  Miss  Wilson,  and  that  lady  far 
away !  but  she  thought  she  should  like  to  go  and  see  Misa 
Wilson.  Though  Patience  looked  very  small,  she  was  older 
than  she  looked,  and  quite  old  enough  to  go  to  the  town  alone. 
She  knew  where  Miss  Wilson  lived,  and  easily  found  the  house. 
Miss  Wilson  was  much  surprised  at  seeing  Patience,  but  very 
glad  to  find  how  happy  she  was  in  the  workhouse.  And  now 
Patience  not  only  answered  every  question  put  to  her,  but  she 
told  how  she  employed  her  time,  and  how  the  workhouse 
children  came  round  and  listened  while  she  read  to  them,  and 
told  them  what  she  had  been  taught  at  school.  Miss  Wilson 
gave  Patience  some  new  books  for  her  own,  to  carry  back  with 
her  :  and  not  being  able  to  walk  so  far  herself,  she  asked  her  fa- 
ther to  go,  and  one  day  he  went,  and  found  Patience  happy  her- 
self, and  drying  to  make  others  happy.  And  there  for  the  pres- 
ent we  raust  leave  her — a  ministering  child  in  the  workhouse. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

•Tl»e  words  that  I  speak  anto  you,  they  are  spirit,  and  they  are  life."— Johs  rt  ttL 

"TXrHILE  Patience  in  the  workliouse  was  gathering  other  chil- 
^ '  dren  round  her,  and  teaching  them  the  blessed  words  that 
had  so  long  lain  silently  on  her  own  heart ;  little  Jane  led  by 
her  mother's  thoughtful  care,  had  a  mission  of  love  to  the  aged. 
In  the  town  where  Mr.  Mansfield  lived,  there  stood,  in  a  narrow 
street,  a  row  of  old  almshouses  ;  the  walls  were  of  white  plaster : 
the  one  single  shutter  to  each  lower  lattice-window  and  the 
doors,  were  black ;  and  the  old  chimneys  rose  thick  above  thb 
red  tiled  roof.  In  the  spring  of  the  yeai',  an  old  man  and 
woman  passed  under  the  almshouse  door-way,  and  up  the  white 
deal  stairs,  to  end  their  days  in  one  of  the  almshouse  rooms, 
which  the  friendly  compassion  of  some  people  in  the  town  had 
obtained  for  them.  They  had  come  from  a  large  farm-house, 
where  much  had  been  under  their  care  ;  but  the  old  man  had 
failed,  and  now  all  was  gone — except  one  four-post  bedstead 
with  its  white  dimity  hangings,  their  two  arm-chairs,  a  chest  of 
drawers,  a  small  round  table  before  the  fire,  and  a  square  one 
in  the  window,  and  such  few  other  articles  as  were  necessary  to 
the  furniture  of  one  room.  The  old  woman  spread  a  white 
cover  on  the  little  table  in  the  window,  and  hung  at  both  small 
lattices  muslin  blinds,  and,  to  a  stranger's  eye,  the  room  looked 
a  picture  of  neatness  and  comfort,  and  the  old  people  were 
thankful  for  such  a  refuge,  but  still  they  felt  the  change  ;  the 


210  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

old  w<)nian  most  of  the  two — and  her  stirring  active  manner 
changed  to  a  look  of  silent  dejection.  They  knew  not  that 
Hope  that  can  shed  its  brightness  no  less  on  poverty  than  on 
wealth,  and  is  the  only  abiding  light  of  either. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  had  known  something  of  them  in  their  better 
days,  and  now  she  hastened  to  visit  them  in  their  affliction ; 
she  saw  the  silent  dejection  of  both,  and  the  thought  occurred 
to  her  mind,  that  very  probably  it  was  as  much  owing  to  the 
loss  of  all  active  interest  in  life  as  it  was  to  any  sense  of  present 
poverty ;  and  that  to  provide  the  old  woman  a  little  employ- 
ment might  prove  a  great  help  in  cheering  their  spirits.  She 
knew  also  that  Mrs.  Blake  was  a  good  knitter ;  so  after  sitting 
with  them  in  sympathy  a  short  time,  she  said,  "  I  have  a  little 
plan  to  propose  to  you,  Mrs.  Blake  :  I  know  you  are  a  superior 
knitter,  and  I  want  my  eldest  little  girl  to  learn  the  art,  and  if 
you  would  not  object  to  take  a  little  pupil,  I  would  send  her  to 
you  three  times  a  week  for  an  hour,  and  then  send  for  her 
again.  I  should  thankfully  pay  a  shilling  a  week  for  her  in- 
struction till  she  can  manage  it  well  enough  to  go  on  by  herself." 

"I  am  sure  I  should  be  thankful,"  rephed  Mrs.  Blake,  "it 
would  seem  a  little  company,  and  cheer  us  up  every  way  !"  So 
the  next  day  was  fixed  for  a  beginning. 

"  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield,  that  afternoon,  "  I  am  going  to 
send  you  to-morrow  to  take  your  first  lessons  in  knitting ;  you 
are  going  to  a  kind  old  woman  who  is  willing  to  teach  you. 
I  am  sure  you  will  be  very  attentive,  and  try  to  give  her  no 
trouble." 

"  Is  she  very  old,  mamma  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  you  would  think  her  very  old,  so  you  must  be 
careful  not  to  tire  her  by  making  her  tell  you  the  same  thing 
over  a  great  many  times.  You  know  you  have  often  wished 
you  could  knit  like  me,  aj^d  now  you  will  learn." 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  211 

Jane  took  the  first  opportunity  of  getting  off  to  the  nursery, 
being  alwayu  anxious  to  tell  all  that  concerned  herself  to  her 
nurse. 

"  Nurse,  I  am  going  to  learn  to  knit  like  mamma ;  there  is  a 
very  old  woman  who  is  going  to  teach  me  ;  mamma  says  I  shall 
think  her  a  very  old  woman  !  Do  you  think,  nurse,  I  can  do 
any  thing  for  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  ;  I  never  saw  the  old  woman  yet  that  a  child 
could  not  be  a  comfort  to  if  there  was  the  mind  to  try  !" 

"  What  do  you  think  I  can  do,  nurse  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  that 's  for  you  to  find  out  when  you 
are  there." 

Little  Jane  had  no  love  for  suspense,  and  she  thought  it 
would  be  much  pleasanter  to  know  at  once  just  what  she 
could  do  for  this  very  old  woman,  and  though  it  was  her 
nurse  who  had  taught  her  to  reverence  old  age,  still  her 
mother  was  always  her  final  appeal,  so  she  did  not  stay  long 
in  the  nursery,  but  made  her  way  back  again  to  her  mother's  side. 

"  Mamma,  nurse  says  I  can  do  something  for  the  old  woman. 
What  can  I  do  ?" 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  her  little  comforter,  Jane,  and  that  will 
be  doing  the  best  thing  for  her,  for  she  is  very  sorrowful." 

''  How  can  I  be  her  comforter,  mamma  ?" 

"  Only  by  loving  her,  and  trying  to  make  her  happy,  as  you 
cry  to  make  me  when  I  am  sad." 

"  I  read  to  you  out  of  the  Bible  to  comfort  you,  mamma,  will 
that  comfort  the  old  woman  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  hope  it  will.  You  will  find  an  old  man  also  ;  the  old 
woman's  husband ;  and  when  you  have  knitted  three  quarters 
of  an  hour,  you  can  tell  the  old  \^  oman  that  you  read  to  me 
to  make  me  happy,  and  that  if  she  will  let  jou,  you  will  read 
to  her." 


212  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  How  shall  I  know  when  it  is  three  quarters  of  an  hour, 
mamma  ?" 

"  Mr.  Blake,  the  old  man  has  a  watch,  and  he  will  tell  you 
if  you  ask  him." 

Now,  little  Jane  was  perfectly  satisfied,  and  with  a  path 
before  her  clear  and  bright  as  the  shining  light,  she  waited  for 
her  next  day's  lesson. 

Her  nurse  led  her  to  the  almshouse,  up  the  white  deal  stair- 
case, knocked  at  the  black  door  where  the  No.  3  was  painted 
in  large  white  letters,  and  left  Jane  seated  on  a  stool  by  Mrs. 
Blake's  side.  Jane  was  a  timid  child,  and  she  felt  a  Httle 
strange,  and  the  color  came  to  her  cheek  wheu  left  alone 
with  the  old  people ;  but  she  remembered  that  she  was  to  try 
and  be  a  comfort  to  them,  and  any  sense  of  power  soon  dispels 
the  slavery  of  fear.  Jane  tried  to  do  her  best,  but  the  knitting- 
pins  were  strangers  to  her  httle  fingers,  and  she  longed  to  get 
to  the  pages  of  the  Bible  to  which  those  same  little  fingers  had 
BO  long  been  used. 

"  Is  it  three-quarters  of  an  hour  yet,  do  you  think  ?"  asked 
"ane  of  Mrs.  Blake. 

"  No,  my  dear,  not  more  than  one  as  yet,  I  should  say." 

Jane  knitted  on  in  patience,  but  the  time  seemed  very  long, 
while  she  grasped  as  tight  as  possible  pins,  which  as  yet  she 
knew  not  the  skill  of  holding  with  easier  pressure.  "  Do  you 
think  it  is  nearly  three-quarters  now  ?"  At  length  she  asked 
again.  Then  the  old  man's  pity  awoke,  and  taking  out  his 
watch,  he  laid  it  on  the  table  by  the  child,  and  said,  "  There, 
dear,  now  you  can  see  for  yourself !" 

"  I  don't  know  what 's  o'clock  when  I  look,"  said  little  Jane. 

"  Come,  wife,"  said  Mr.  Blake,  "  you  have  had  time  enough  for 
your  teachings ;  I  will  give  mine  now.  Come  here,  dear,  a  nd 
T  will  sho\^  you  all  about  it !"     So  Jane  stood  at  the  old  man's 


p.  212. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  213 

knee,  and  he  taught  her  how  to  find  out  what  it  was  o'clock, 
and  spun  out  his  lesson  till  the  throe  quarters  were  fairly  over. 

"  Is  it  quite  three  quarters  ?"  asked  Jane. 

"•Yes,  dear;  do  you  want  to  be  going  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to  go,  but  mamma  said,  would  you  like 
me  to  read  in  the  Bible  to  you  when  it  was  three  quarters  of 
an  hour  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  !"  said  the  old  man.  "  Wife,  where 's  our 
Bible  ?" 

"  It 's  here  where  it  always  is,"  said  Mrs.  Blake,  going  to  the 
chest  of  drawers,  "  but  it 's  too  big  for  a  child !" 

"  I  can  stand  at  the  table,"  said  little  Jane ;  "  I  can  find  the 
place  where  I  read  to  mamma  this  morning — I  can  find  places 
in  the  Bible  now  all  by  myself ! — shall  I  read  what  I  read  to 
mamma  about  the  sheep  and  the  goats  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  that 's  just  what  I  should  like !"  said  the  old 
farmer. 

So  the  child  stood  up  between  the  two  old  people,  and  her 
young  voice  bore  on  its  feeble  breath  the  seed  of  eternal  life — 
herself  unconscious  of  the  enduring  influence  of  the  words  that 
"  are  spirit  and  life,"  thinking  only  of  its  present  power  to  com- 
fort. 

When  Jane  had  done,  the  old  man  said,  "  Ah,  thank  you, 
dear,  those  are  cutting  words !"  but  Mrs.  Blake  only  praised 
little  Jane's  reading.  Jane  looked  at  her,  surprised  and  disap- 
pointed— as  having  expected  a  far  higher  result  than  any 
thought  of  her  reading,  and  said,  gravely,  "  It  makes  mamma 
happy  when  I  read  her  the  Bible  !" 

"  Ah,  dear,  that 's  as  it  should  be  !"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Does  it  make  you  happy  ?"  asked  little  Jane,  turning  to 
him. 

"  God  gi-ant  it  may !  God  grant  it  may !"  he  replied,  and 


214  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

little  Jane  satisfied  witli  his  words,  shut  up  the  great  Bible 
Mrs.  Blake  saw  that  she  had  answered  wrong,  and  that  the  child 
had  expected  what  was  read  to  have  some  effect  on  her ;  sh<3 
said  no  more  then,  but  she  determined  next  time  to  hsten,*that 
she  might  see  whether  she  could  find  any  thing  in  the  words 
themselves.  Then  rising  up,  Mrs.  Blake  went  to  her  closet  and 
brought  out  her  wheaten  loaf  and  slice,  of  butter,  and  cutting 
some  bread  and  butter  for  Jane,  she  ofiered  it  to  her.  She  had 
been  used  to  bring  out  her  home-made  cake  and  wine  to  her 
guests ;  and  now,  though  bread  and  butter  was  all  her  store,  she 
would  still  offer  that.  Little  Jane  received  the  offer  of  the  poor 
old  woman  as  she  would  have  received  the  same  kind  care  from 
the  rich  ;  and  then,  her  nurse  arriving,  she  returned  to  her  home, 
to  give  to  her  mother  her  simple  account  of  all  that  had  passed. 
And  on  through  the  summer  weeks  little  Jane  knitted  her  three 
quarters  of  an  hour,  then  told  the  time  from  the  old  man's 
watch,  and  read  her  chapter  out  of  the  great  Bible — and  thus 
the  child  became  a  ministering  guide  to  Heaven ! 

Before  we  leave  the  town  we  will  pay  a  farewell  visit  to  the 
shoemaker's  family.  We  saw  them  before,  on  the  Christmas- 
eve  ;  and  it  was  still  the  winter-time,  when,  if  you  could  have 
looked  in  of  an  evening  after  the  day's  work  was  done,  and 
when  the  mother's  candle  was  lighted,  and  she  was  sitting 
by  the  round  table  at  work,  you  would  have  seen  on  the 
table  a  pile  of  loose  pages,  and  Agnes  and  Ephraim  seated 
side  by  side,  sorting  and  arranging  them  :  they  were  pages 
of  the  New  Testament,  which  Miss  Wilson  had  found  in 
one  of  the  school  closets — a  heap  of  old  and  torn  copies  of 
the  Holy  Testament ;  so  she  sent  them  to  the  shoemaker's  book- 
binding son,  for  him  to  see  what  he  could  do  with  them.  The 
book-binding  boy  set  his  little  brother  and  sister  to  work,  and 
every  evening  after,  they  sorted  the  sacred  pages,  till  they  had 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  215 

some  Testaments  complete,  and  some  separate  Gospels  complete, 
and  some  Epistles  complete  ;  then  the  shoemaker's  book-binding 
son  carried  them  ofl',  and  in  his  spare  time,  with  the  pieces  his 
master  allowed  him  to  use,  he  put  them  all  into  neat  dark 
covers,  and  then  he  gave  them  to  Miss  Wilson,  saying,  "  I  have 
not  money,  but  I  have  a  little  time  to  give,  and  I  want  it  to  bo 
my  offering  to  those  that  have  need."  He  brought  eight 
volumes — Testaments  and  parts  of  Testaments,  refusing  any  pay- 
ment, leaving  the  words  that  are  "  spirit  and  life,"  again  ready 
for  the  use  of  the  poor  and  needy.  So  it  was  that  the  shoe- 
maker's children  ministered  to  others,  "  according  to  their  ability." 
While  little  Patience  gathered  health  and  strength  in  the 
warm  summer-time  beneath  the  workhouse  matron's  care,  the 
life  of  the  young  sweet  lady  of  the  Hall  was  passing  from  the 
earth.  Every  one  around  her  watched  her  gently  fading  from 
their  sight ;  her  parents  knew  that  she  was  dying,  and  looked 
upon  her  day  by  day  as  if  each  look  might  be  their  last  upon 
her  living  form ;  the  servants  watched  her  whenever  in  their 
sight,  and  thought  of  all  that  devoted  service  could  do — ^as  if 
they  felt  each  act  might  be  the  last  that  loving  reverence  might 
offer  her ;  the  villagers  looked  fi  om  their  labor  when  the  car- 
riage passed — and  if  she  was  in  it,  they  turned  and  watched  it 
out  of  sight ;  the  cottage  women  looked  from  door  or  window, 
then  sighing  turned  again  to  their  work  within ;  the  very 
children  of  the  village  knew  that  their  lady  was  departing,  and 
looked  into  her  face  with  silent  questioning,  which  there  was 
none  to  answer — for  their  young  hearts  spoke  by  looks  alone  ; 
all  knew  that  she  had  well-nigh  reached  Heaven's  gate,  all  but 
her  own  young  brother — he  looked  on  her,  but  her  smile,  un- 
changed, still  threw  its  veil  of  beauty  over  weakness  and  pain  ; 
he  looked  no  deeper  than  that  smile,  and  thought  that  however 
her  strength  might  change,  that  smile  would  be  always  beside 


216  MINISTERING     CHfLDREN. 

him  ;  and  lest  he  should  find  that  others  thought  differently,  he 
never  asked  of  any  what  they  thought,  and  so  lie  knew  it  not, 
but  still  believed  that,  with  the  greatest  care,  she  might  recover 
again,  as  she  had  done  before.  It  was  now  some  weeks  since 
he  had  been  to  old  Willy's,  for  the  last  time  he  went,  and 
expressed  his  hope  that  his  sister  would  soon  be  well  again,  old 
Willy  had  shaken  his  head  ;  Herbert  saw  and  felt  that  shake  of 
tiie  old  man's  head ;  he  said  nothing,  but  he  kept  d,way  from 
the  cottage  after  that,  afraid  to  venture  again. 

It  was  the  close  of  June,  the  air  breathed  the  fragrance  of 
the  new-mown  grass  over  the  hills,  the  song  of  the  birds  was 
hushed  at  mid-day,  and  the  heavy  foliage  hung  its  soft  shade  be- 
tween the  earth  and  sky.  Miss  Clifford  came  down  in  her  shawl 
and  bonnet,  and  Herbert,  evei»on  the  watch,  soon  had  her  lean- 
ing on  his  arm,  crossing  the  unsheltered  lawn.  "  You  will  not 
go  this  way,  Mary,  you  will  want  the  shade  of  the  trees,"  he 
said — without  arresting  by  a  pause  the  frail  steps  he  supported. 

"  No,  I  want  to  go  this  way  to-day,"  she  replied  ;  "  and  as  I 
can  not  talk  while  walking,  we  will  sit  down  on  this  seat,  and  I 
will  tell  you  why." 

Herbert  sat  ^own  beside  his  sister,  and  she  said,  "  There  is  a 
poor  old  woman  who  lives  not  far  from  the  Lime-avenue  Lodge ; 
she  is  very  ill ;  I  fear  they  think  her  dying,  and  I  want  to  go  to- 
day and  visit  her." 

"  Indeed,  Mary,  you  must  not  go !  you  know  mamma  never  lets 
you  go  and  sit  in  sick  rooms  ;  and  now,  when  you  can  not  take 
a  little  walk  without  bein^  tired,  I  am  sure  you  must  not  go  !" 

"  Yes,  dear  Herbert,  mamma  does  not  mind  to-day ;  she 
knows  I  am  going,  and  you  will  go  with  me.  I  fear  the  poor 
woman  is  dying  without  a  hope  beyond  the  grave,  and  there  is 
no  one  to  tell  her  of  '  the  precious  blood  that  cleanseth  from  all 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  217 

Herbert  was  silent ;  he  thought,  could  he  gc  and  tell  the 
dying  woman  of  the  precious  blood  of  Jesus,  that  could  cleanse 
h'er  from  her  sins  ?  No,  he  thought  he  could  not ;  he  feared 
he  should  not  know  what  to  say  to  her ;  he  had  never  seen 
sickness  and  death,  and  he  was  afraid  to  venture  ;  so  he  let  his 
sister  take  his  arm,  and  he  led  her  gently  on  ;  they  were  silent 
till  they  reached  the  cottage.  The  dying  woman  was  lying  on 
a  bed  put  up  for  her  in  the  lower  room ;  she  looked  toward  Miss 
Cliflford,  but  did  not  speak.  Herbert  stayed  by  the  open  case- 
ment, and  Miss  Clifford  we^:  to  the  bedside.  "I  am  sorry  to 
see  you  so  ill,"  said  Miss  Clifford. 

"  O,  dear,  yes,  and  I  am  as  bad  in  mind  as  I  am  in  body  !" 
the  dying  woman  replied. 

"  What  is  it  that  troubles  you  ?"  Miss  Clifford  asked. 

"  What  is  it !  why  it 's  every  thing,  even  to  the  look  of  peace 
on  my  husband's  face — for  to  my  belief  the  peace  he  has  is  as 
much  above  my  reach  as  the  Heaven  itself !" 

"  It  is  the  peace  of  God  your  husband  has ;  the  peace  of  one 
who  has  found  the  Saviour ;  none  ever  reached  that  peace  of 
themselves ;  but  God  who  gave  it  to  him,  can  give  it  also  to 
you." 

"Yes,  our  minister  has  been  here,  and  he  told  me  1  must  re- 
pent ;  he  said,  that  there  was  no  mercy  without  that,  and  I  told 
him  it  was  no  use,  for  I  could  not  repent ;  I  don't  feel  it,  and  I 
told  him  so.'^ 

"  You  can  not  get  repentance  any  more  ttan  peace  of  yourself; 
they  are  both  the  gift  of  God ;  but  it  is  written  in  the  Bible, 
'  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you !'  " 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  it 's  all  to  be  had  by  those  who  have  not  set 
themselves  against  it  all  their  life-long  as  I  have  done,  but 
there  *8  none  can  tell  how  I  have  turned  against  it — therefore 
there 's  none  can  say  that  it 's  for  me  !" 

10 


218  MINISTERING    CHILDREN. 

"'Shall  I  tell  you  what  God,  who  knows  all  things,  says  ip 
His  Word  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  don't  mind  hearing  now  !" 

"  He  says,  '  0  Israel,  thou  hast  destroyed  thyself,  but  in  Me 
is  thy  help  found  !' " 

The  dying  woman  looked  up ;  those  words,  "  Thou  hast  de- 
stroyed thyself,"  reached  the  depth  of  her  sense  of  misery ;  they 
included  it  all,  and  made  her  feel  that  if  over  those  "  destroyed" 
there  was  hope,  then  might  there  be  a  hope  for  her.  Clasping 
her  hands  together,  and  fixing  her  dying  eyes  upon  the  young 
speaker,  she  exclaimed,  "  0,  how  you  comfort  me  !"  then,  clos- 
ing her  eyes,  she  listened  while  again  the  same  words  which 
had  proved  so  instantly  "  spirit  and  life"  to  her  were  repeated. 
After  telling  her  of  Jesus — the  One  mighty  to  save,  on  whom 
help  for  the  sinful  has  been  laid,  whose  precious  blood  can 
cleanse  from  all  sin,  the  young  lady  took  her  leave,  and  left  her 
to  the  hope  she  had  set  before  her  in  the  Gospel — that  one 
declaration  of  divine  truth,  which,  admitting  all  her  sin  and 
misery,  turned  her  eye  not  on  herself  for  repentance,  but  on 
Jesus  for  help,  and  touched  her  heart;  the  seed  of  hope  was 
planted,  and  in  the  last  great  day  it  may  be  seen  to  have 
brought  forth  fruit  to  life  eternal. 

Herbert  led  his  sister  gently  home,  he  laid  her  on  her  couch 
to  rest — wearied  with  her  effort  she  did  not  speak,  but  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  head  and  smiled  upon  him — one  long  sweet 
.smile  that  met  his  earnest  and  inquiring  look :  then  Herbert 
turned  away  thoughtfully  to  his  room ;  he  had  a  purpose  in 
going  there — it  was '  to  take  his  Bible  in  his  hand  ;  to  hold 
again,  himself,  in  his  own  hand,  the  wondrous  Book,  whose 
words  from  his  sister's  lips  he  had  but  just  seen  change  the  face 
of  dull  despair  to  the  eqger  gaze  of  sudden  hope.  He  held  his 
Bible,  he  looked  upon  its  pages,  he  saw  the  words  so  thickly 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  219 

traced,  And  thought  again  upon  the  living,  the  creative  p6wer 
he  had  but  now  seen  them  possessed  of,  and  he  resolved  that 
the  highest  object  of  his  Hfe  should  be  to  make  them  his  own 
by  hiding  them  within  his  heart — that  he  might  both  live  him- 
self by  their  help,  and  use  them  in  aid  of  others.  He  held  the 
sacred  volume  as  the  young  soldier  grasps  his  sword — ^for  per- 
sonal and  relative  defense :  but  Herbert's  was  "  the  sword  of  the 
Spirit,  the  Word  of  God" — which  wounds  but  to  heal ;  which 
destroys — not  man,  but  sin,  man's  enemy;  a  sword  given  to 
be  used — not  to  defend  one  human  being  against  another,  but 
to  defend  all  against  the  powers  of  evil,  to  rescue  all  from  Satan's 
dreadful  dominion.  Happy  the  child  who  goes  forth  early  in 
this  blessed  warfare — who,  taking  the  Word  of  God,  first  proves 
its  power  in  his  own  heart  and  Hfe,  then  tries  to.  use  it  for 
others'  good  ;  "  he  shall  stand  in  the  evil  day,  and  having  doEe 
all,  shall  stand,"  and  those  beside  him  whom  God  will  have 
given  him  to  be  his  glory  and  joy  in  the  day  of  Christ's  ap  pear- 
ingl 


CHAPTER    XV. 

•*0, 1  stand  trembling 
Where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er  hath  been ; 
Wrapt  in  the  radiance  of  that  sinless  land 
Which  eye  hath  never  seen. 

*'  Bright  visions  come  and  go, 
Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me  throng. 
From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 
Of  soft  and  holy  song." 

TT  was  the  summer  night.  The  heavens,  so  softly  blue,  were 
-*-  gleaming"  with  their  host  of  countless  stars :  the  village  slept 
in  the  calm  hush  of  midnight's  hour,  it  slept  and  knew  not  that 
its  best  and  dearest  treasure  was  passing  from  its  sight  forever. 
Horses'  hoofe  trod  swiftly  through  the  village  street,  but  they 
roused  not  the  laborer  whose  healthful  sleep  is  sweet  to  him 
after  the  long  day's  toil ;  then  all  was  silent,  till  after  an  hour's 
space,  carriage  wheels  rolled  rapidly  by,  it  sounded  like  the 
dc'Ctor's  carriage,  and  affection's  wakeful  ear  and  heart  were 
roused — ^many  a  villager  listened,  and  some  looked  anxiously 
out,  but  the  distant  sound  had  died  away,  and  all  was  silent 
again.  With  the  dawn,  the  village  rose,  "  Man  goeth  forth  to 
his  work  and  to  his  labor  till  the  evening."  Far  over  the 
bright  pastuies  the  grass  had  withered — the  flower  faded  be- 
ndath  the  mower's  scythe ;  and  one,  the  sweetest  flower  that 
ever  grew  within  the  village  bound,  one  that  every  village  hand 
would  have  been  raised  to  shield  and  to  retain,  had  fallen  too 
beneath  the  scythe  of  death — ^the  young  sweet  lady  of  *he  Hall 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  221 

lay  dead ;  that  night  her  spirit  had  departed,  and  the  place  that 
had  known  her,  knew  her  no  more.  The  villagers  soon  learnod 
the  tidings,  and  one  told  another,  till  every  cottage  knew  and 
mourned  its  loss.  Yet  they  said  not,  "  She  is  dead  ;"  but  only, 
"She  is  GONE !"  They  thought  not  of  death,  but  of  Heavon 
as  her  portion ;  so  they  said  one  to  another,  "  She  is  gone  !"  and 
the  laborer  raised  his  arm,  from  turning  the  new-made  hay,  and 
wiped  away  the  tear  that  dimmed  his  eye ;  and  the  widow  wept 
alone  within  her  cottage  door ;  and  the  village  mother,  silent 
and  sad,  prepared  the  morning  meal,  and  the  children  cried  be- 
side their  untasted  food — the  village  mourned,  for  the  friend,  the 
loved  of  all,  was  gone  ! 

The  windows  of  the  Hall  were  curtained — ^the  stately  home 
of  her  birth  closed  in ;  guarding  the  stiD  repose  of  that  lovely 
form  in  death  which  it  had  sheltered  through  life.  The  grief  of 
the  home  was  calmed  by  the  near  approach  to  Heaven's  gate 
with  the  bright  spirit  who  had,  manifestly  to  all,  entered  in  ;  and 
for  a  time  the  glory  that  received  her,  struggled  with  the  sadness 
her  departure  had  left  behind — even  as  the  sun's  parting  rays 
cast  their  light  back  on  the  gray  shades  of  advancing  twilight. 
Poor  Herbert  alone  had  been  surprised  as  by  a  sudden  sho(  k, 
he  knew  not  that  she  was  going,  till,  lo  !  she  was  gone  !  Grief 
held  him  in  its  heavy  fetters,  he  could  think  of  and  feel  nothing 
but  the  first  overpowering  sense  of  death  and  desolation ;  he 
knew  too  little  yet  of  what  it  is  to  rise  in  heart  and  live  in  Heav- 
en, to  be  able  to  feel  communion  of  spirit  still  with  her  whom 
he  had  lost  on  Earth. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  came,  and  the  whole  village  gathered 
to  the  grave — ^there  came  the  old  and  feeble,  whom  her  hands 
had  clothed  and  fed,  her  lips  had  taught  and  comforted  :  th(  re 
came  the  dark  transgressor,  whose  chains  of  sin  had  melted 
under  her  fervent  utterance  of  Heavenly  truth  and  love  ;  there 


222  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

came  the  strong-built  laborer,  whose  dull  mind  bad  gathered 
light  under  her  gentle  teaching,  whose  hand  of  iron-strength 
had  followed  her  frail  finger,  tracing  out  the  sacred  lessons  of 
holy  writ ;  there  came  the  village  children,  the  lambs  of  the 
Chief  Shepherd's  fold,  whom  she  had  fed  ^vith  the  Uving  Word 
of  the  Lord  of  Life — all  came  to  see  the  form  they  had  loved 
laid  to  its  rest,  till  the  resurrection  of  the  just.  Respect  brought 
some,  but  it  was  love  unfeigned  that  led  the  many  there  :  they 
filled  the  churchyard,  lined  the  wooded  lane  that  led  down  the 
hill-side,  reached  to  the  park-gate  and  stood  beneath  the  trees 
that  grew  beside  it.  Old  Willy  had  climbed  the  hill,  and  lean' 
ing  on  his  staff,  stood  beneath  the  churchyard  Yew.  Then  the 
long  procession  came  in  sight,  the  servants  of  her  home  would 
suffer  no  hired  hand  to  bear  her  honored  form  and  lay  it  to 
its  rest ;  slowly  they  came,  the  snow-white  border  of  the  sable 
pall  gleaming  between  the  old  trees  of  the  park ;  ■  telling  of 
purity  and  light  that  encompasseth  the  blessed,  hidden  from 
earthly  sight  by  the  dark  shade  of  death.  Herbert  was  led  by 
his  father,  and  the  long  train  of  mourners  followed.  There 
stood  the  mourning  village,  and  the  mourners  from  many  a 
village  round.  The  great  men  of  the  Earth  have  a  name 
through  its  generations,  and  then,  if  their  greatness  has  been 
of  Earth  only,  their  very  name  must  pass  away  and  be  lost  for- 
ever ;  but  the  childlike  spirit,  who  lives  to  minister  to  others* 
good,  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  weary-hearted,  to  sweeten  and 
bless  life's  bitter  cup,  to  win  the  lost  to  the  Saviour's  feet — 
luring  on,  by  words  of  truth  and  bright  example  of  Heavenly 
love,  from  Earth  to  Heaven,  from  darkness  into  light,  from 
death  to  life — ^has  a  record  wiitten  on  human  hearts  whose 
records  are  eternal.  A  suppressed  sob  heaved  the  breasts  of 
the  villagers  as  she — who  had  ever  come  among  them  in  fife  to 
bless — was  borne  into  the  midst  of  them  sleeping  in  death.   The 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  223 

villag-6  children  }^ad  filled  their  pinafores  with  the  summer 
flowers,  they  had  been  wont  to  gather  them  to  win  her  smile, 
and  now  they  cast  them  down  before  the  feet  of  those  who  bore 
her  to  her  rest ;  she  who  most  endeared  the  flowers  to  them 
had  passed  away  from  earth  forever. 

The  clergyman  of  the  village,  an  old  man,  had  served  that 
village-church  for  thirty  years,  but  not  a  single  voice  had  blessed 
him,  for  he  knew  not  the  power  of  that  love  by  which  the  min- 
ister of  Christ  unlocks  the  sinner's  heart.  He  had  now  stepped 
from  his  garden  to  the  vestry  on  the  other  side  of  the  church, 
and  it  was  not  till  called  to  meet  the  departed  that  he  saw  the 
assembled  village.  As  the  sight  from  the  church  porch  first 
broke  upon  him,  he  stood  for  a  moment  overcome — such  a  com- 
pany of  mourning  people — children  whose  sobs  answered  to  the 
silent  tears  of  strong-built  men  and  helpless  age,  was  grief  too 
real  not  to  raise  the  instant  question  within  him,  "What  woke 
this  burst  of  love  ?"  and  he  stood  silent  and  awe-struck  at  the 
church's  porch.  Meanwhile  the  bearers  waited,  they  had  reached 
the  churchyard  gate,  and  would  not  enter  without  the  words  of 
holiest  greeting  for  the  earthly  form  they  bore ;  then,  in  that 
moment's  solemn  pause,  old  Willy,  standing  beneath  the  Yew 
raised  his  voice,  and  calmly  and  distinctly  exclaimed,  "  Welcome 
the  holy  dead  !"  At  the  sound  of  those  firm  tones  of  age,  the 
Minister  recovered  speech  ;  he  came  forward  with  the  words  of 
Life,  and  the  bearers  followed  him  into  the  church.  The  ser- 
vice went  calmly  on ;  but  when  the  white  coflSn  was  borne 
within  the  tomb,  overcome  by  the  hopelessness  with  which  they 
hid  his  sister  from  his  sight  forever  upon  Earth,  Herbert  fainted 
and  fell.  The  servants  came  forward,  but  meanwhile  Jem  had 
darted  through  them,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee  at  Herbert's 
side,  looked  up  at  the  father's  face  for  permission  to  raise  the 
boy :  the  servants  would  have  pat  him  aside,  but  the  father 


224  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

moved  his  hand  to  them  to  retire,  and  lifting  Herbert  from  tlie 
ground,  place'd  him  in  the  arms  of  the  faithful  Jem,  sending  a 
servant  hastily  forward  to  prevent  needless  alarm  to  Mrs.  Clif- 
ford. The  throng  separated  for  Jem  to  pass,  bearing  his  pre- 
cious burden — the  child  of  fortune — the  only  hope  of  his 
father's  house,  trusted  to  one  of  themselves,  borne  by  the  vil- 
lage lad  to  his  home.  Jem  made  his  way  down  the  hill  side, 
then  stopped  a  moment  to  raise  the  boy's  arm,  which  had  fallen- 
from  its  posture  of  rest,  and  as  he  laid  the  small,  soft  hand  on 
the  breast  of  the  boy,  he  thought  of  the  day  when  he  had 
taught  it  first  to  use  the  tools  so  large  and  heavy  for  its  strength, 
in  labor  for  the  poor  and  needy !  and  the  tear  of  past  and 
present  feeUng  gathered  in  the  eyes  of  the  faithful  Jem.  Jem 
was  met  on  his  way  to  the  Hall,  and  accompanied  by  some  of 
the  maid-servants  to  the  house.  Mrs.  Clifford  waited  anxiously 
at  the  door. 

"  It 's  only  a  fainting,  ma'am,"  said  Jem  ;  "  it  was  all  over  too 
much  for  my  young  master,  but  he  will  come  to  quick  enough 
now !" 

Mrs.  Clifford  bent  a  moment  over  the  fainting  boy,  almost  as 
pale  herself — her  vision  almost  as  dim.  "  Bring  him  in  here 
and  lay  him  down,"  she  said  ;  and  she  opened  the  nearest  door, 
while  the  maids  gathered  to  the  Hall,  bearing  various  remedies 
and  helps.  Mrs.  Clifford  preceded  Jem  into  the  dining-room 
— the  very  room  where .  Jem  had  stood  before  alone  with  the 
young  Squire  to  receive  his  mother's  scarlet  cloak. 

"  Come  in  and  lay  him  here,"  said  Mrs.  Clifford,  and  she  placed 
the  damask  cushion  for  the  boy's  unconscious  head.  Jem  had 
felt  no  hesitation  in  raising  the  heir  of  that  stately  dwelling  in 
his  arms,  to  bear  him  to  his  home ;  but  now  that  by  daylight 
he  saw  the  rich  carpet  that  lay  before  his  feet,  he  held  back 
with  his  precious  burden,  hesitating  in  his  rough  shoes  to  tread 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  225 

upon  a  thing  so  costly— even  so  it  is  that  the  poorest  can  r'se 
in  a  moment  to  feel  and  act  up  to  the  universal  tie  of  nature's 
one  brotherhood,  but  they  pause  at  the  threshold  of  wealth's 
display  ;  and  own,  as  if  by  instinct,  that  the  separating  line  lies 
there  ! 

"  Bring  him  in,"  repeated  the  housekeeper ;  and  friends  within 
the  house  were  gathering,  and  maid-servants  were  waiting  round, 
and  so  Jem  bore  the  child  of  the  mansion  across  the  soft-car- 
peted floor,  laid  him  gently'down  with  his  pale  cheek  on  the 
crimson  cushion,  and  then,  as  he  stepped  back,  while  Herbei  t's 
mother  knelt  beside  the  couch,  and  friends  drew  nearer  and  ser- 
vants waited — ^Jem,  bowing,  asked,  "  Will  you  please  that  I  should 
fetch  the  doctor  ?"  but  the  housekeeper  shook  her  head  and 
whispered  "  No  ;"  then  Jem,  with  another  bow  of  lowliest 
reverence,  and  a  look  of  anxious  love  toward  the  fainting  boy, 
withdrew.  He  saw  the  long  train  of  mourners  descending  the 
hill,  and  made  his  way  straight  to  the  farm,  there  to  solace  him- 
self among  his  sheep. 

The  evening  shadows  fell  and  closed  that  summer  day  ;  the 
folded  flowers,  the  folded  flocks,  the  birds  with  folded  wing — 
all  sought  repose  ;  while  softly  calm  the  moon  rose  over  all  in 
the  blue  heavens.  Old  Willy  had  vainly  tried  to  comfort  his 
troubled  heart — his  eyes  were  dim,  he  could  not  see  the  words 
of  the  Book ;  he  sat  awhile  within  doors,  then  stepped  into  his 
garden,  then  back  again  within  the  cottage  in  wearied  restless- 
ness, wanting  some  human  voice  to  fall  on  his  aching  heart 
with  tones  of  comfort ;  but  all  that  summer  day  were  mourners, 
and  no  earthly  comforter  drew  near.  When  the  hush  of  even- 
ing shed  its  soothing  silence  round,  and  sleep  seemed  far  away 
trom  old  Willy's  tear-dimmed  eyes,  he  took  his  staff  and  set 
forth  to  climb  once  more  that  day  the  steep  hill-side,  and  lo  3k 
upon  tlie  tomb  where  they  had  laid  his  blessed  guide  to  Heavea 


226  MINISTERING     CHI1.DIIEN. 

All  were  goiie  from  the  hill-side ;  and  the  Hall,  with  its  far- 
Btretching  slopes,  lay  silently  and  beautifully  in  the  summer 
evening  twilight.  Old  Willy  looked  round  once  from  the  hill- 
top on  his  lady's  home  on  earth,  then  turned  to  the  church- 
yard gate,  and  leaning  upon  it,  rested  there  a  little  while  before 
he  ventured  further,  for  the  place  where  they  had  laid  her 
seemed  to  the  old  man  holy  ground — too  sacred  almost  for  his 
feet  to  enter.  So  he  leaned  upon  the  gate,  looking  on  into  tho 
distant  azure  of  the  sky,  looking'  almost  without  sight  or 
thought,  his  senses  lost  in  one  deep  feeling — they  had  laid  his 
sweet  young  lady  in  the  grave,  they  had  left  her  there  alone, 
the  night  was  darkening  over  her,  and  he  alone  kept  watch 
above  the  form  so  loved  of  all !  How  long  he  stood  he  did  not 
.  know,  but  suddenly  he  saw  in  those  blue  heavens  before  his 
eyes  a  shining  star,  full  on  his  sight  its  radiance  beamed,  the 
only  star  in  heaven,  risen  there  in  view,  and  looking  down  to 
comfort  him,  it  seemed  !  "  Ah  !  sure  I  see  it,"  the  old  man  said, 
in  a  low  tone,  "  sure  I  see  it 's  no  use  looking  down  in  the  dark 
grave  for  her  that 's  up  above  the  stars  in  glory  there  !  I  see  it !" 
again  he  murmured  low,  as  with  a  lingering  gaze  on  that  bright 
star  he  turned  to  depart ;  but  then  again  he  looked  toward  the 
tomb,  and  thought  he  would  stand  beside  it  once  before  the 
night  came  on,  and  so  he  climbed  the  stile  beside  the  now 
locked  gate,  and  reached  the  silent  grave  ;  then  stopping  short 
gazed  in  surprise,  for  at  its  foot  a  child  lay  sleeping,  her  head 
reclined  against  the  lady's  tomb,  her  lap  full  of  fresh-gathered 
flowers.  "  Poor  dear,"  said  the  old  man,  "  she  has  fallen  off 
asleep  ;  why,  'tis  little  Mercy  Jones  !  Mercy,  child  !  I  say,  wake 
up  there !"  And  the  child  sprang  up  from  sleep  like  a  startled 
fawn,  and  her  flowers  dropped  from  her  pinafore  ;  but  when  she 
saw  it  waa  old  Willy,  she  stood  still,  looking  down  on  the  fallen 
flowers. 


MINISTERING     CHILDIiEN.  227 

"  Why,  Mercy,  child,  you  must  not  stay  sleeping  here,  it 's  no 
place  for  you  !" 

"  Yes,  but  it  is,"  said  the  child,  without  looking  up  ;  "  it 's 
the  best  place  in  all  the  world — to  be  near  to  my  lady !  I 
nave  not  been  so  near  to  her  since  that  last  day  she  came 
and  stood  among  us  all  in  school,  only  I  can't  see  her  now 
Oh,  if  I  could  but  see  her !"  And  the  child  sat  down  again 
at  the  tomb's  foot  beside  her  fallen  flowers  and  hid  her  face  and 
wept. 

The"  tears  again  dimmed  old  Willy's  eyes,  but  still  he  saw 
that  beauteous  star  shining  so  brightly  down  from  the  blue 
Heaven — looking  full  upon  both  him  and  the  young  child,  as 
they  watched  there  beside  the  tomb  ^vithin  the  churchyard 
dreary !  and  he  answered  quickly,  "  Why,  child,  your  blessed 
lady  is  not  here,  look  there,  she  's  shining  bright  in  Heaven  !" 
The  child  looked  up  with  sudden  start,  as  if  expecting  that 
angel  face  to  beam  upon  her  from  above,  or  to  get  some  distant 
glimpse  of  her  lady's  white-robed  form  in  glory ;  she  looked 
where  the  old  man  pointed,  and  her  eye  too  rested  on  the  star 
■ — on  those  calm  blue  Heavens  above  her,  and  that  beaming 
star  so  full  of  softened  glory — she  looked,  then  said,  "  I  only 
see  a  star !" 

"  Well,  child,  what  more  would  you  see  ?  Is  not  that  star 
enough  ?  is  n't  it  just  come  shining  down  from  Heaven  upon  you 
to  tell  you  that  the  blessed  lady  is  up  above  it  far  away  in 
glory?  For  what  did  God  send  it  in  the  sky  there,  if  not  to 
put  you  in  mind  that  there  's  a  world  of  glory  up  above,  all 
shining  bright  like  that  same  star,  and  that  He  took  the  blessed 
lady  straight  up  to  it  to  dwell  with  Him  forever  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know- it,"  said  little  Mercy,  "and  I  wish  I  was  with 
her  there  !" 

"  Tb  ■'.n,  child,  you  must  be  walking  the  path  she  went." 


228  MINISTERING     CHILDREN 

"  What  path  was  that  ?"  asked  Mercy,  looking  up  to  the  old 
man's  face. 

"  Wliy,  the  blessed  path  of  love,  child  !  love  to  God  and  man  ; 
her  mind  was  always  on  her  Saviour,  and  trying  to  bring  others 
to  the  love  of  Him.  Oh,  child!  it's  written  in  the  Book  that 
'  God  18  Love,'  and  there  's  none  but  a  path  of  love  that  can 
lead  up  to  Him." 

Little  Mercy  was  silent ;  she  had  tried  to  tread  the  path  of 
love,  in  which  her  lady  had  taught  her  to  walk,  she  had  tiied 
to  please  God  her  Heavenly  Father,  and  Jesus  her  Saviour,  and 
to  be  a  ministering  child  to  others ;  and  now  she  knew  not 
what  more  to  do ;  all  looked  dreary  and  dull  around  her,  and 
she  was  silent. 

"  Come  now,  child,"  then  old  Willy  said,  "  it 's  best  to  begin 
at  once  !  You  know  right  well  your  poor  grandmother  is  fret- 
ting at  home  for  that  blessed  lady  that 's  gone,  now,  do  you  go 
back,  and  be  cheerful,  and  comfort  her  up." 

"  Yes,"  said  little  Mercy,  "  I  came  here  because  I  could  not 
bear  it. — Granny  cried,  and  said,  *the  summer  time  seemed 
gone  from  the  earth!'  and  though  I  had  set  the  supper  all 
ready.  Uncle  Jem  turned  away  and  never  eat  a  bit !  so  I  went 
and  gathered  those  flowers  and  came  here." 

"Well,  child,  you  know  you  have  seen  that  star,  there  it 
is,  look  at  it,  see  how  it  shines  right  down  upon  us  here — a 
bit  of  glory  as  it  is !  Now,  you  go  and  be  like  that,  you  go 
and  try.  He  who  sent  that  star  to  light  us  up  with  comfort 
here,  sent  you  to  your  good  grandmother  to  be  a  bit  of  light 
to  her  in  this  lonesome  world — you  mind  that,  and  go  and  try, 
till- the  day  comes  when  you  will  go,  as  the  blessed  lady 's  gone, 
to  Heaven." 

So  little  Mercy  rose,  and  took  her  bonnet  from  the  gfound, 
and  the  old  man  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head,  and  blessed 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  *2'A\} 

her,  and  she  left  her  fallen  flowers  at  the  foot  of  the  tomb, 
and  back  she  went  with  many  a  look  upon  the  star  in  the 
blue  sky ;  from  whatever  point  she  turned  to  look,  the  star 
still  beamed  upon  her, — seemed  to  watch  her  still,  so  she  went 
back  with  light  in  her  eyes  and  fresh  life  in  her  young  heart, 
gathered  from  the  old  man's  words  and  the  bright  star  in 
Heaven.  Old  Willy,  too,  went  home,  and  from  his  cottage 
door  beheld  the  same  bright  star,  then  laid  him  down  to  rest- — 
to  sleep  and  dieam  of  glory. 


CHAPTEE    XVI. 

'•llie  memory  of  the  just  Is  blessed." — PROVKRBi  x.  T.  ' 

"Being  dead,  yet  speaketh."— Hebrews  xl.  4. 

rriHE  old  clergyman  could  not  forget  the  scene  he  had  wit- 
-*-  nessed,  but  the  love  and  the  sorrow  were  both  incomprehen- 
Bible  to  him ;  he  felt  their  reality,  but  could  not  understand 
their  cause.  At  length  it  occurred  to  him,  how  often,  in  driv- 
ing out,  he  had  seen  Miss  Clifford's  ponies  at  the  cottage  doors  ; 
he  instantly  concluded  that  it  must  be  the  notice  she  had 
taken  of  the  poor  that  had  endeared  her  to  them ;  and  think- 
ing it  would  be  pleasant  to  win  the  same  feeling  for  himself, 
pleasant  to  have  the  love  of  all  his  people  in  life,  and  their 
tears  above  his  grave,  he  determined  to  visit,  himself,  from 
house  to  house  with  this  object.  He  thought  also  that  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  be  kind  to  those  who  showed  so  much  feeling, 
such  warm  return  of  gratitude ;  so  he  set  forth.  He  went 
through  the  village  street,  calling  at  every  house,  leaving  his 
gifts  of  money,  and  saying  a  few  words  to  all,  but  he  returned 
dissatisfied :  he  had  met  no  smile  of  welcome,  seen  no  tear- 
dimmed  eye  grown  bright ;  heard  no  blessing.  What  made 
the  difference  ?  Why  had  he  no  power,  and  she — the  departed 
so  young  in  years !  why  had  she  so  much  ?  He  could  not  tell : 
he  did  not  know  that  a  difference,  as  real  as  that  of  Earth  and 
Heaven,  lay  between  his  visits  and  the  visits  of  her  the  village 
mourned.  He  had  gone  in  his  own  name,  his  words  were  of 
Earth,  his  gifts  the  dol*  of  the  richer  to  the  poorer ;  his  object 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  231 

was  to  please,  and  to  win  affection  and  gratitude  to  himself; 
but  she  they  mourned,  had  gone  to  none  but  in  the  Name  of 
Jesus  ;  her  words  breathed  to  all  the  love  and  truth  of  Heaven : 
her  gifts  were  ever  the  expression  of  her  thoughtful  sympathy 
— warm  with  compassion's  tenderness,  and  bright  with  the 
glad  power  of  administering  aid  ;  such  was  her  way  of  giving 
that  her  gift  ever  elevated,  instead  of  seeming  to  degrade  or 
lower  the  receiver ;  her  highest  object  was  not  to  win  feeling 
toward  herself,  but  to  win  the  whole  heart  and  life  of  those 
she  visited  to  her  Saviour  and  their  Saviour,  that  they  might 
be  happy  in  Him,  and  He  glorified  in  them  :  therefore  an  over- 
flowing recompense  was  poured  out  for  her — for  "  with  what 
measure  ye  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again."  But  the 
aged  clergyman  knew  not  that  the  difference  between  his 
Earthly  kindness  and  her  Heavenly  love,  was  wide  as  the  east 
is  from  the  west.  He  was  disappointed,  and  resolved  to  give 
up  the  vain  attempt,  and  go  on  as  before.  But  then  a  recol- 
lection of  that  old  man  who  had  stood  within  the  churchyard 
gate,  and  uttered  those  words  of  blessing  on  the  departed, 
crossed  his  mind,  and  he  resolved  to  go  and'  call  on  him,  and 
see  what  he  would  say. 

Old  Willy  saw  his  minister  coming  up  his  cottage  garden, 
and  stood  at  his  door  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  to  receive  him  : 
old  Willy  had  learned  to  behave  himself  lowly  and  reverently 
to  those  whom  God  had  placed  above  him  in  station,  and  cour- 
teously to  all.  There  is  no  such  teacher  of  true  courtesy  as  pure 
Religion — if  we  would  only  learn  of  her  ! 

"  Sit  down,  my  good  friend,  sit  down,"  said  the  clergyman. 
"  What  a  nice  house  you  have  here  !  I  think  I  remember  this 
quite  a  tumble-down  building  ?" 

"  Very  like  you  may,  sir ;  for  that  was  the  fashion  of  it  many 
a  long  day !" 


232  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

**  I  tliink  I  saw  you  at  Miss  Clifford's  funeral  the  other  day  f 
observed  the  clergyman. 

Old  Willy  sobbed  out,  "  Yes,  sir  !"  overcome  at  the  suddei^ 
mention  of  the  subject. 

"  Never  mind  my  good  friend,  I  am  sorry  to  distress  you.  I 
suppose  Miss  Clifford  was  very  good  to  the  poor  ?" 

"  Ah  yes,  su- !  if  I  might  have  given  my  old  life  for  her-g, 
there 's  hundreds  would  have  blessed  me  !" 

"  Miss  CHfford  came  to  see  you,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  sure  enough  she  did,  but  it  was  Him  she  brought 
with  her,  that  made  her  wholly  a  blessing." 

"  Who  was  that  ?"  asked  the  minister. 

"  Why  our  Saviour,  sir !  she  never  went  any  where  to  my 
belief  without  Him,  and  you  never  saw  her  but  you  seemed  to 
get  a  fi-esh  sight  of  Him." 

The  clergyman  was  silent ;  at  length  he  said,  "  Well,  my 
good  friend,  you  come  very  regular  to  church,  I  wish  I  could  see 
a  few  more  of  your  neighbors  there." 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  then  you  see  we  want  teaching  !  and  there  'a 
some  of  them  that  can  walk  after  that." 

"  To  be  sure  they  want  teaching  *  and  have  not  I  preached 
two  sermons  every  Sunday  for  thirty  years  ?  Why  don't  they 
come  to  hear  them  ?" 

"  That 's  true  enough,  sir,  there 's  none  can  say  to  the  contrary 
of  that ;  no  doubt  there  's  teaching  enough  in  your  sermons  to 
do  any  body  good ;  only  poor  dark  creatures  as  we  are,  can't 
get  hold  of  it,  because  the  Light  isn't  set  up  in  the  midst  of  it." 

"  What  Light  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,  I  mean  him  that  is  the  Light  of  the  world,  with- 
out whom  'tis  groping  in  the  dark.  I  mean  our  Saviour,  sir ! 
why  when  one  gets  a  sight  of  Him,  then  one  can  see  and  get 
a  hold  of  all  the  good  that  lies  round ;  but  when  there 's  no 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  283 

getting  a  sight  of  Him,  why  it  seems  all  the  same  as  leading  a 
poor  creature  out  when  the  sun  is  not  in  the  sky — there 's  no 
getting  a  right  understanding  of  any  thing.'*" 

The  aged  minister  was  silent  again ;  old  Willy  waited,  but 
when  the  silence  lasted,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  Bible  at  his 
side,  saying,  "  I  never  look  in  here  for  teaching,  but  I  see  Ilim 
before  me  !  He  is  just  the  very  light  of  my  old  heart,  that  was 
as  dark  as  death  before.  I  first  got  a  sight  of  Him,  out  of  this 
Book,  and  now  I  never  so  much  as  look  into  it  but  I  see  Him, 
and  I  find  that  it  holds  but  dark  where  there  's  no  jetting  up  of 
Him." 

"  Well,  my  good  friend,  I  will  think  of  your  words,"  said  the 
old  clergyman,  and  with  that  withdrew. 

The  summer  sun  had  three  times  risen  and  set  since  Herbert 
sank  beside  his  sister's  grave ;  he  was  lying  on  his  mother's 
couch  :  his  cheek  almost  as  pale  as  then ;  his  Bible  lay  beside 
him,  but  he  had  ceased  to  read,  and  was  lying  with  a  look  of 
sad  and  earnest  thought :  his  mother  watched  him  anxiously, 
but  feared  to  question  him,  lest  she  should  but  wake  her  own 
deep  grief  and  his  into  expression. 

"  Mamma,"  at  last  he  said,  "  you  see  it  is  harder  for  me  thar 
for  any  one." 

"  What  is  harder  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Clifford. 

"  To  lose  Mary,  mamma." 

"  Why  is  it  harder  for  you,  dear  Herbert  ?" 

"  Because  you  and  papa  are  so  good  !  but  I  was  always  get- 
ting wrong,  and  never  should  have  got  right  again  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Mary's  smile." 

Mrs.  Clifibrd  was  silent,  she  could  not  question  more  on  such 
a  subject.     Herbert  soon  went  on  to  say, 

"  You  see,  mamma,  when  J  got  into  trouble,  you  and  papa  of 
wurse  were  displeased,  and  you  looked  so  grave,  and  then  I  lost 


234  MINIST£RING     CHILDREN. 

all  hope  in  a  moment,  anl  it  was  so  dreadful  to  feel  as  if  one 
could  never  be  riglit  again  !  -  And  I  never  felt  as  if  I  could  or 
seemed  to  know  bow ;  but  wben  I  went  to  Mary,  she  always 
smiled  at  me  still,  and  said  sbe  knew  I  was  sorry,  and  wanted  to 
do  right  again — and  so  I  am  sure  I  did,  though  I  did  not  always 
know  it  till  she  told  me ;  and  then  she  used  to  say  it  would 
soon  be  all  bright  again  ;  and  when  I  looked  at  her,  and  heard 
her  say  so,  I  believed  it,  and  then  I  tried,  and  she  used  to  tell 
me  what  to  do,  and  help  me  ;  and  then  I  was  sure  to  get  right 
again  ;  only  you  and  papa  did  not  know  how.  But  now  I  don't 
see  any  hope  for  me,  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  me." 

"  Do  you  know  who  gave  you  your  sweet  sister  to  help  you 
on  your  way  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  of  course  it  was  God." 

"  And  has  God,  your  Heavenly  Father,  given  you  no  better 
gift — one  that  still  remains,  one  that  death  can  never  take  away  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  I  know  that  God  has  given  us  Jesus  Christ, 
and  that  He  helps  me  when  I  pray  to  Him,  I  know  that,  mam- 
ma ;  but  then  I  can  not  see  Him,  or  hear  him  speak  to  me,  as  I 
could  Mary." 

"  You  have  not  seen  Him  yet  perhaps,  dear  Herbert,  but  you 
may  see  Him.  He  can  and  he  does  show  Himself  as  clearly  to 
the  eye  of  the  spirits  of  His  children  sometimes,  as  earthly  ob- 
jects are  seen  by  the  eye  of  the  body ;  and  he  speaks  as  distinct-  • 
ly  to  their  hearts  as  earthly  voices  to  the  ear." 

"  But  would  Jesus  smile  on  me,  mamma,  when  I  get  wroDg, 
and  am  in  trouble  for  it,  as  Mary  used  to  do  ?" 

"  O  yes,  he  would  !  Whatever  may  have  been  your  fault,  if 
you  only  turn  to  Him  you  will  find  His  tenderness  the  same :  if 
you  only  look  up  to  Him — the  moment  you  see  His  face  you 
will  see  the  smile  of  forgiveness  and  love  upon  it.  His  love, 
my  child,  is  more  than  a  mother's;  and  what  His  tenderness 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  236 

leads  you  to  liope,  His  power  can  enable  you  to  accomplish — 
He  can  work  in  you  both  to  will  and  to  do  according  to  His 
own  good  pleasure." 

Herbert  lay  silent,  thinking  on  his  mother's  words,  and  she 
had  gathered  strength  from  speaking  of  Him  who  is  the  Life,  to 
speak  of  her  whom  death  had  taken,  and  went  on  to  say  to  her 
listening  child,  "  It  was  so  with  Mary,  she  lived  always  in  the 
presence  of  God  her  Saviour,  always  able  to  look  up  to  Him 
and  see  His  face  at  any  moment,  she  lived  in  the  sense  of  HJis 
love,  it  was  her  greatest  joy  to  try  in  all  she  did  to  please  Him, 
by  doing  His  holy  will — this  made  her  Hfe  so  happy,  and  so 
blessed !" 

Then  Herbert  said,  "  I  will  try  mamma,  and  do  as  Mary  did 
Shall  I  read  you  a  chapter  from  the  Bible  now  1" 

"  Yes,  dear  Herbert,  that  will  help  us  both  to  do  that  of  which 
we  have  been  speaking — even  to  walk  in  the  light  of  God's 
countenance."  So  Herbert  read  to  his  mother,  and  the  words 
of  Heavenly  Truth  and  Love  lightened  the  sadness  of  their 
hearts — as  the  rising  sun  illumines  the  mist  that  hides  the 
Heavens  from  our  earthly  view. 

Days  passed  away,  and  Herbert  returned  to  his  studies  ;  but 
the  paleness  did  not  pass  from  his  cheek,  nor  the  sadness  from 
his  brow  :  he  had  not  mounted  Araby,  nor  taken  a  single  walk 
by  himself  since  the  day  that  saw  him  bereft  of  his  sister.  He 
was  sitting  one  morning  in  the  window  of  his  father's  study 
with  a  lesson-book  before  him,  but  his  eyes  were  far  away  on 
the  park's  green  slopes,  where  the  deer  were  feeding.  His 
father  came  in,  and,  going  up  to  him,  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
boy's  dark  clustering  curls,  but  silently,  as  if  he  feared  to  wake 
into  expression  the  saddened  thought  so  plainly  written  on  his 
face.  Herbert  looked  up,  then,  after  a  minute's  silence,  said, 
"Papa,  sha/1 1  tell  you  what  I  was  thinking  V^ 


h 


236  MINISTERINU     CHILDREN. 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  what  was  it  f 

"  I  was  thinking  that  I  wished  Snowflake  might  be  unshod 
and  turned  into  the  park,  to  live  always  there,  and  no  one  ever 
ride  her  again ;  she  would  look  so  beautiful  under  the  green 
trees  !  I  am  sure  she  has  done  good  enough  to  rest  all  her  life 
now,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  see  her  led  up  for  any  one  else  to 
mount." 

"  No,  perhaps  none  of  us  could  bear  that ;  but  how  would  it 
be  if  I  had  a  new  pony-carriage  for  your  mamma,  and  you  drove 
Snowflake  and  the  groom's  pony  in  it  ?  and  then  we  could  keep 
David  on,  and  have  a  seat  behind  the  carriage  for  him,  to  save 
your  mother's  fears  ?" 

"  0  yes,  papa,  I  should  like  that !  I  had  not  been  into  the 
stables  till  to-day,  and  David  took  the  cloth  off  Snowflake,  she 
looked  as  beautiful  as  possible,  -and  turned  her  bright  eye  round 
on  me,  only  she  looked  so  sad  !  I  am  sure  she  knows,  papa — 
any  one  who  saw  her  would  think  so  too  !  David  said  that  at 
first  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not  bear  the  place,  but  now  he  feels  as 
if  he  could  do  any  thing  to  stay.  May  I  tell  him  what  you 
mean  to  do,  papa  ?     I  know  he  will  be  so  glad  !" 

"  Yes,  if  your  mother  does  not  object.  Jenks  can  try  Snow- 
flake  alone  in  the  pony-chair,  I  know  he  broke  her  in  first  to 
that !" 

"  Yes,  papa,  and  then  I  can  drive  mamma  out  first  with 
Snowflake  alone,  till  the  new  carriage  comes."  And  Herbert 
rose  up  with  more  of  purpose  and  energy  than  he  had  felt  sinco 
the  day  that  the  stroke  of  bereavement  had  first  fallen  on  him. 
Mrs.  Clifford  made  no  objection,  any  personal  fear  being  over- 
come by  the  sense  of  the  new  interest  for  her  child.  David  met 
the  proposal  still  to  stay  as  groom  very  gratefully  ;  and  Jenka 
said,  "  You  could  not  put  the  creature  to  the  thing  she  would 
not  do  if  she  had  the  power !"     So  it  was  finally  settled,  that 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  237 

after  one  or  two  days'  trial  b}  Jenks,  Herbert  sbould  drire  his 
mother  with  Snowflake  in  the  pony-chair,  till  the  new  carriage 
could  be  bought. 

The  day  arrived  when  Herbert  was,  for  the  first  time,  to 
drive  his  mother  out.  -  Old  Jenks  led  up  the  pony-chair  with 
Snowflake  harnessed  in  it ;  she  did  not  stand  with  arching  neck 
and  pawing  step,  but  sorrowfully  with  head  hung  down,  as  if 
she  knew  the  hand  and  voice  she  loved,  would  not  be  now 
awaiting  her.  Herbert  felt  all  the  responsibility  of  his  new 
privilege ;  and  some  unexpressed  anxiety  that  all  should  be 
prosperous  in  this  his  first  attempt  to  drive  his  mother,  helped 
to  check  his  feeling  at  sight  of  Snowflake.  Mrs.  Clifford  also 
was  not  free  from  nervous  apprehension,  never  really  considering 
herself  safe  except  when  old  Jenks  was  her  charioteer — she  had 
only  yielded  to  the  proposal  for  the  sake  of  the  interest  to  Her- 
bert ;  and  now  her  feeling  also  at  sight  of  the  snow-white  creature 
was  lessened  by  a  sense  of  personal  apprehension :  she  took  her 
seat,  and  Herbert  his,  by  her  side,  and  Snowflake  gently  trotted 
from  the  door.  There  were  only  three  roads  by  which  to  leave 
the  Hall  for  a  drive  ;  one  was  the  direct  way  to  the  town,  and 
led  past  old  Willy's  cottage  ;  Herbert  had  not  yet  summoned 
courage  to  see  old  Willy,  though  the  old  man  had  been  many 
times  up  to  the  Hall  to  inquire  for  him  since  the  day  he  had 
seen  "  the  blessed  child,"  as  he  called  him,  fall  beside  the  grave ; 
therefore  Herbert  would  not  go  that  way,  because  of  passing  his 
cottage.  Another  road  led  up  the  steep  hill-side  to  the  church, 
past  the  churchyard  gate,  and  then  round  by  farmer  Smith's,  a 
longer  way  to  the  town  ;  that  could  not  be  ventured  on ;  so  Her- 
bert drove  out  by  the  gamekeeper's  lodge,  and  took  a  long 
winding  shady  lane  that  led  round  by  the  back  of  the  park. 
Snowflake  trotted  swiftly  and  smoothly  along ;  but  gentle  as 
the  creature  was  known  to  be,  Mrs.  CHfford  was  still  on  the 


238  MINISTEEING     CHILDREN. 

watch  for  fear  of  some  miscliance.  On  they  went  beneaih  the 
sheltering  trees,  when,  drawing  near,  a  lonely  cottage,  Snowflake 
suddenly  quickened  her  pace  and  drew  up  at  the  door. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clifford.  While  she 
spoke,  Herbert  touched  Snowflake  with  the  whip ;  but  all  the 
advance  that  was  gained  was  a  few  steps  to  a  little  window  of 
one  pane,  rather  high  up  in  the  wall — a  window  that  opened 
with  a  push  from  within  or  from  without,  directly  underneath 
which  Snowflake  took  a  determined  stand.  Herbert  gave  her 
a  harder  stroke ;  she  shook  her  silver  mane  at  the  unwonted 
indignity,  but  did  not  move  a  step.  Herbert's  color  mounted 
to  his  cheek,  and  Mrs.  Clifford  exclaimed,  "  Take  care,  Herbert, 
something  will  certainly  happen  !"  But  at  that  instant  the  door 
opened,  and  out  came  a  neatly-dressed  woman,  courtesying,  as 
if  to  expected  guests. 

"  Do  go  to  the  creature's  head  while  we  get  out !"  said  Mrs. 
Clifford.  The  woman  obeyed,  and  Herbert  sprang  down  and 
handed  out  his  mother. 

"  Something  is  wrong,"  said  Mrs.  Clifford,  as  she  stood  on  the 
door-step  ;  "  the  creature  will  not  move  !" 

"  0  dear  me,  no,  ma'am,  the  pretty  dear  is  always  used  to  stop 
here  ;  I  don't  know  I  have  ever  seen  it  pass  by  without !" 

"  What  for  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Clifford. 

"  Why,  you  see,  ma'am,  my  poor  old  mother  is  blind  and  bed- 
ridden, and  that  sweet  lady  that 's  gone  was  the  very  light  of 
her  life,  and  I  never  saw  her  so  much  as  pass  by  once  !  She 
used  to  get  off"  at  this  door-step,  and  the  pretty  creature  knew 
it  as  well,  and  would  never  have  wanted  the  telling ;  and  if  she 
was  all  in  a  hurry  for  time,  as  she  would  be  sometimes,  why 
then  she  just  rode  up  to  that  little  window — it  goes  open  with  a 
shove,  and  i'  's  just  above  my  old  mother's  bed,  and  there  she 
would  speak  a  cheery  word  to  her,  and  then  be  off"  again  ;  and. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN^  239 

dear  me,  how  that  word  would  hft  up  my  poor  mother's  spirits  1 
She  used  to  say,  the  very  sound  of  her  voice  was  like  Heaven's 
music  to  her,  sent  to  comfort  her  up  in  her  darkness  !  So  that 
is  all  the  meaning  of  the  pretty  creature's  holding  to  it  so !" 

The  sudden  alarm  Mrs.  Clifibrd  had  taken,  and  now  the  sud- 
den disclosure  of  the  cause,  were  too  much  for  her;  she 
stepped  into  the  cottage,  and,  sitting  down,  leaned  her  face  upon 
her  hand,  and  wept.  Herbert  threw  his  arms  round  Snowflake, 
partly  to  hide  his  tears,  and  partly  to  atone  for  the  stroke  of 
the  whip  he  had  made  her  feel.  The  poor  woman  waited  beside 
Mrs.  Clifford  in  distress  to  know  what  to  do,  then  hastened  and 
brought  her  water  in  a  glass. 

Mrs.  Clifford  soon  recovered  self-possession,  and  turning  to  the 
poor  woman,  said,  "  I  will  see  your  mother."  The  woman 
hastened  into  the  inner  room,  and  smoothing  the  bed-clothes, 
whispered,  "  Here 's  Madam  herself  from  the  Hall !  the  pretty 
creature  would  not  stir  a  step,  and  Madam  is  wholly  overcome  !" 
Then,  hastening  back  again,  she  took  Mrs.  Clifford  in.  Mrs. 
Clifford  went  to  the  bed,  took  the  old  woman's  hand  in  hers, 
and  sat  down,  but  vain  were  all  attempts  to  speak.  The  poor 
old  woman  felt  her  silent  grief,  but  while  the  big  tears  from  her 
sightless  eyes  rolled  down  her  cheek,  she  said,  "  Oh  !  my  lady  ! 
this  world  is  the  place  for  weeping,  but  the  blessed  dear  is  gone 
to  Him  who  wipes  all  tears  away !  Don't  I  see  her  with  my 
eightless  eyes,  shining  as  bright  as  the  morning's  ray  up  above 
in  the  holy  Heaven  ?  and  don't  it  lighten  me  up,  as  the  sound 
of  her  tongue  did  here  !  I  never  thought  to  hear  her  horse's 
feet  ring  down  the  lane  again  ;  and  now  that  you  should  come ! 
'tis  a  wonderful  condescension  and  lifts  me  up — that  it  does." 

"  I  will  come  and  see  you  often  !"  replied  Mrs.  Clifford,  and 
she  rose,  strengthened  by  the  old  woman's  vision  of  faith,  hvd 
onable  to  say  more,  pressed  her  hand,  and  left  the  cottage. 


24C  MINI8TERING     CHILDREN. 

It  was  the  first  visit  Mrs.  Clifford  had  ever  paid  to  the  poor 
and  needy.  The  deep  feeling  and  touching  expression,  and 
unassuming  attention,  the  bright  faith  beholding  what  her  own 
faith  had  not  realized — all  these  surprised  her  -with  their  charm  * 
that  brief  visit  had  planted  in  her  heart  the  seed  of  a  personal 
interest  in  the  poor ;  she  felt  too  the  peace  of  having  shed  com- 
fort on  another,  and  she  stepped  from  the  cottage  door,  unwill- 
ing so  soon  to  leave  the  spot,  yet  feeling  unable  then  to  stay. 
The  fear  too  of  safety  with  Snowflake  seemed  lost  in  the  deeper 
impressions  now  awakened,  and  a  creature  who  could  so  follow 
the  track  of  its  departed  mistress's  steps  of  love,  was  surely 
worthy  of  confidence,  so  Mrs.  Clifford  took  her  seat  by  Herbert's 
side,  and  ceased  to  look  out  for  occasions  of  mischance. 

On  through  the  summer  lanes  they  drove,  and  the  sweet  air 
relieved  the  oppression  of  feeling.  The  drive  was  a  lonely  one, 
farm-houses  and  cottages  stood  right  and  left  among  the  fields, 
but  none  by  the  road-side,  till  at  the  foot  of  a  hill,  sideways 
from  the  winding  lane,  they  saw  a  cottage  :  a  little  boy  stood 
beside  the  wicket-gate,  clad  in  a  coarse  round  pinafore,  his  little 
cap,  crushed  up  in  his  hand,  left  his  fair  curls  uncovered,  and 
his  smiling  eyes  of  blue  looked  down  the  winding  lane  as  if 
with  listening  expectation. 

The  boy  was  Rose's  little  friend,  Johnnie  Lambert,  the  widow 
Lambert's  only  child.  Quick  as  thought,  the  listening  boy  at 
sight  of  Snowflake  darted  into  the  cottage,  calling,  "  Mother ! 
mother  !  the  lady 's  coming  !"  then  back  he  ran  to  the  wicket- 
gate,  while  the  mother  looked  from  the  door. 

"  Stop  and  let  us  speak  to  that  child,"  said  Mrs.  CHfford,  for 
she  saw  the  white  pony  was  well  known  to  the  boy. 

The  child  made  his  dehberate  and  never-forgotten  bow,  and 
then  raised  his  bright  face  as  if  to  meet  the  look  of  some  loved 
^miliar  friend,  but  instantly  the  blank  of   disappointed  hope 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.      -  241 

chased  liis  glad  smile  away,  and  running  to  the  pony's  head,  lie 
sheltered  himself  there. 

Seeing  the  pony  stopping  at  the  gate,  the  mother  stepped  out 
and  courtesied  low. 

"  Your  little  boy  knows  the  pony  ?"  said  Mrs.  Cliflford. 

"  Yes,  ma'am, — Johnnie,  come  here  and  make  your  bow  to 
the  lady  !"  but  Johnnie  was  giving  his  tears  to  Snowflake.  "  He 
takes  on,  ma'am,  so  about  the  dear  young  lady  that 's  better  off, 
he  is  always  watching  for  her,  and  I  can't  make  him  sensible 
that  she  is  gone  !  he  ran  in  just  now,  for  he  thought  it  was  her 
when  he  got  sight  of  the  pony." 

"  Was  she  often  here  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Clifford. 

"  0  yes,  that  she  was  !  All  the  time  my  poor  husband  kept 
about,  she  used  to  come  and  read  to  him — ^for  he  could  not  read 
a  word,  and  I  never  saw  a  man  so  changed !  he  suffered  a 
wonderful  deal,  for  his  complaint  lay  in  the  head,  and  nothing 
could  ease  it,  and  he  lost  all  his  spirits,  and  was  always  fretting 
to  live  and  get  well ;  but  when  she  had  showed  him  the  way 
to  Heaven — all  plain  for  him  to  walk  in,  and  showed  him  how 
his  Saviour  called  him  to  come  unto  Him  !  he  seemed  to  think 
of  nothing  else,  it  was  wholly  a  pleasure  instead  of  a  misery  to 
see  him !" 

"  Has  he  been  long  dead  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Clifford. 

"  Over  two  years,  ma'am  ;  but  to  me  it  seems  all  as  fresh  as 
yesterday !  He  lay  six  weeks  in  his  bed,  and  all  that  time  he 
never  saw  the  dear  young  lady,  only  she  used  to  send  and  in- 
quire for  him,  but  he  seemed  past  the  want  of  her  then,  though 
before  when  he  was  about  he  would  sit  all  day  long  and  watch 
for  her  coming  by,  but  when  he  took  to  hi«  bed,  and  she  could 
not  come,  he  seenled  to  be  hanging  only  on  his  Saviour.  I 
have  heard  him  say  when  I  sat  by  his  bed,  "  Oh  !  I  see  Him  !  I 
see  Him  f'  and  then  he  would  let  me  leave  him  and  get  my 

11 


242  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

night's  rest — though  he  could  not  sleep  a  wink  for  pam,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  Heaven  had  opened  above  him.  Oh,  it  was  a 
wonderful  change !  he  said  the  dear  young  lady's  words  had 
been  life  from  the  dead  to  him  !" 

Herbert  had  slipped  out  of  the  carriage  unperceived  by  his 
mother,  and  now  standing  with  the  reins  in  his  hand,  was  trying 
to  comfort  the  child,  but  he  could  not  get  him  to  speak,  only 
to  take  a  shy  look  at  him  now  and  then. 

"  Poor  dear  !"  said  the  mother,  looking  round,  "  it  puts  me  so 
in  mind  of  his  father  to  see  how  he  listens  for  the  creature's 
feet,  the  dear  young  lady  took  wonderful  notice  of  him  !  he  can 
say  many  a  thing  she  taught  him,  only  he 's  shy.  When  I  ask 
him  where  his  poor  father  is,  he  will  point  up  to  the  sky,  and 
say,  *  With  God  !'  but  I  can't  make  him  sensible  that  the  dear 
young  lady  won't  come  down  the  lane  again !" 

"  Tell  him  that  we  will  come  again  !"  said  Mrs.  Clifford — ^with 
an  effort  to  retain  composure  :  and  Herbert,  hearing  this  assur- 
ance, took  his  seat,  and  they  drove  on — watched  out  of  sight  by 
the  widow  and  her  oi"phan  boy. 

But  now  it  was  necessary  to  decide  which  way  to  return — 
either  back  through  the  lanes,  and  so  to  risk  another  halt  at  the 
blind  widow's  door ;  or  past  the  churchyard  gate ;  or  by  old 
Willy's  cottage.  Herbert  preferred  the  last — as  best  of  the 
three,  and  before  they  reached  the  old  man's  dwelling,  they  saw 
him  in  the  distance,  advancing  slowly  on  the  road  toward  them, 

"  There  is  old  Willy  himself !"  said  Herbert. 

"  Do  not  pass  him  by,"  replied  Mrs.  Clifford,  "  stop  and  speak 
to  him." 

The  old  man  stood  some  minutes  beside  the  little  carriage, 
his  white  head  uncovered — the  very  picture  of  beautiful  old 
age !  Mrs.  Clifford  talked  to  him,  and  with  true  feeling  the 
old  man  made  no  reference  to  the  one  of  whom   each  heart 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  .     243 

was  full,  his  feeling  only  struggled  througli  in  silent  tears  ;  ho 
had  changed  away  his  week-day  garment  for  an  old  coat  of 
black,  and  in  this,  and  a  band  of  crape  about  his  hat,  wore  the 
signs  of  mourning  for  her  who  had  been  more  than  child  to  him. 
At  parting,  Mrs.  Clifford  said,  "  I  shall  come  and  see  you  with 
my  son." 

"  A  thousand  thanks,"  replied  old  Willy,  as  he  bowed  low  to 
the  lady,  but  his  look  of  love  turned  full  and  rested  on  Herbert. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  soon  come,  Willy,  very  soon,  and  mamma  too  !'' 
added  Herbert  greatly  relieved  at  the  thought  of  the  first  sight 
of  his  aged  friend  being  over. 

And  so  they  returned  to  the  Hall ;  both  had  passed  through 
much  to  try  them  in  that  morning  ride,  but  not  less  to  soothe 
and  elevate.  The  mother  and  son  felt  as  if  they  had  that 
day  entered  on  their  sweet  Mary's  path  of  love  and  service,  and 
they  longed  to  follow  her  steps  in  all.  Herbert  now  often  drove 
his  mother  out,  all  fear  of  Snowflake  was  gone,  the  creature  was 
allowed  to  stop  at  pleasure  ;*  and  when  a  visit  could  not  be 
made,  some  kindly  word  was  spoken,  till  in  every  dwelling 
where  her  child  had  shed  the  light  of  hope,  and  the  peace  of 
comfort,  or  the  aid  of  knowledge,  Mrs.  Clifford  followed  her, 
gathering  the  blessed  recompense  that  even  the  most  aching 
heart  must  find  in  keeping  God's  commandments — watered  her- 
self with  Heavenly  consolation  in  watering  others.  While  in 
Herbert's  young  heart — so  trained  and  disciplined,  earth  daily 
gathered  more  of  Heaven  ;  and  a  depth  of  feeling  and  a  power 
of  thought  and  action  beyond  his  years,  enriched  his  life  wit  b 
personal  and  relative  happiness. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

•Be«   /e  one  another's  burdens,  and  so  fulfill  the  law  of  Christ."— Galati Aim  yl  % 

rPH  X  summer  months  left  Patience  in  the  workhouse  restored 
-*-  to  health.  And  now  another  place  of  service  must  be  found 
for  her ;  the  workhouse  made  the  choice,  and  we  shall  find  what 
it  was.  Patience  took  leave  of  her  workhouse  home  with  a 
sorrowful  heart ;  and  a  heavy  dread  came  over  her  as  she  drew 
near  the  place  to  which  she  was  now  engaged.  It  was  a  small 
house,  a  short  distance  out  of  the  town ;  and  when  Patience 
went  in,  she  saw  so  many  children  crowded  together  in  one 
small  kit»3hen,  that  she  supposed  it  to  be  an  infant  school !  But 
no,  it  wae  a  family  of  ten  children,  the  youngest  a  baby  of  some 
few  weeki^,  the  next  just  able  to  step  alone,  the  third  a  helpless 
little  cripple,  the  fourth  a  rosy-faced  girl  of  about  five  years  of 
age,  then  twin-boys  of  seven,  who,  with  the  four  elder  boys 
and  girls,  vent  to  a  day-school.  The  mother  was  busy  at  the 
washing  tub,  and  the  children  were  all  sitting  and  standing 
about,  the  elder  one«  home  from  their  afternoon  school ;  but 
when  Patience  ^ame  in,  they  all  with  one  consent  looked  round 
on  her. 

This  was  now  to  be  the  place  of  service  Patience  was  to  fill — 
maid-of-all-work  in  the  family  of  the  foreman  in  Mr.  Mansfield's 
shop— there  were  ten  children,  and  all  the  washing  done  at 
home !  It  sounds  like  heavy  work,  but  we  must  not,  like  old 
nurse  Brame,  be   led  by  sound   alone ;    and  we  may  always 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  245 

remember  tliat  work  proving  liard  or  pleasant  depends  far  4nore 
upon  the  minds  of  those  who  rule,  and  those  who  serve,  than 
upon  the  amount  of  labor  to  be  done.  Robert,  the  eldest  boy, 
had  opened  the  door,  and  then  run  back  to  his  mother  to  say 
the  new  girl  was  there.  "  Bring  her  in  then,"  said  the  mother ; 
so  in  came  Patience,  still  pale  and  timid,  with  her  small  bundle 
in  her  hand.  "  Come  in,  come  in  and  see  us  all  at  once  !"  said 
the  mother  and  mistress,  without  so  much  as  making  a  mo- 
ment's stop  in  her  washing.  Then,  looking  hard  at  Patience 
in  the  firehght,  she  added,  "  What 's  that  all  the  show  you  have 
to  make  of  strength  !  Well,  if  you  are  killed  with  hard  work 
that  will  lie  at  your  master's  door,  for  it  was  he  hired  you,  not 
I,  remember  that !  Here  's  plenty  of  work^ — and  plenty  of  play 
too,  so  don't  be  frightened !  There,  Betsy,  you  go  and  show 
the  girl  where  to  put  her  bonnet  and  shawl  and  her  bundle,  and 
then  don't  lose  a  minute,  but  come  and  be  after  tea."  Betsy  did 
as  she  was  desired,  and  quickly  returned  with  Patience  to  the 
kitchen.  The  early  autumn  evening  was  damp  and  cold,  and 
when  Patience  returned  to  the  family  party,  preparations  for  tea 
were  beginning.  The  little  parlor  opened  into  the  small  kit- 
chen, and  Robert,  the  eldest  boy,  was  kneeling  down  before  the 
parlor-stove,  blowing  up  the  flame  he  had  just  lighted.  Polly, 
the  second  girl,  was  setting  out  the  tea-things ;  and  the  moment 
Betsy  returned,  she  began  to  take  her  part  in  fetching  out  the 
bread  and  butter  and  cheese,  together  with  a  large  round  cake, 
whose  only  claim  to  the  designation  consisted  in  a  few  scattered 
currants — more  thought  of  because  so  far  apart  that  each  one 
became  a  definite  object,  and  this  so-called  plum-cake,  with  its 
scanty  sweetening  of  sugar,  was  much  more  approved  by  the 
little  group  of  children  than  sHces  of  bread  and  butter.  Patience 
had  not  been  five  minutes  in  the  house,  but  on  no  account  was 
she  to  stand  idle.     "  What 's  your  name,  child  ?"  ii  qiured  the 


246  MINIeJTERINQ     CHILDREN 

motLer,  still  wringing  out  the  wet  clothes,  and  depositing  them, 
one  by  one,  in  a  large  white  basket.  "  Patience !"  replied  the 
new  little  servant. 

"  Patience  ?  Well,  I  have  heard  worse  names  than  that ! 
You  may  be  sure  you  will  have  plenty  need  of  patience  her<% 
though  there  is  no  hardship  for  all  that !  I  hope  you  have  at. 
apron  ?"  .    . 

"  Yes,  in  my  bundle,"  replied  Patience. 

"Have  it  on  then,  as  fast  as  you  can!"  And  up  stairs 
Patience  ran  with  a  light  quick  step,  there  was  something  so 
animating  in  the  universal  stir  below  stairs,  that  she  longed  to 
be  one  among  them  all  again,  and  in  two  minutes'  time  she 
stood  aproned  before  her  mistress. 

"  Now  take  that  wide  shovel  and  gather  up  all  those  cinders 
by  the  grate  here,  and  put  them  every  one  on  the  parlor  fire." 
So  Patience  gathered  up  the  cinders,  and  laid  them  on  the  top 
of  the  knobs  of  coal,  among  which  the  cheerful  blaze  began  to 
ascend.  "  Now  take  the  kettle  and  fill  it  at  the  tap  there,  and 
set  it  on  this  fire  to  boil,"  said  her  mistress.  Meanwhile,  Robert 
had  been  out  and  shut  the  shutter ;  Betsy  had  drawn  the  chintz 
curtain  within;  Polly  had  lighted  one  sohtary  candle  and  set  it 
in  the  middle  of  the  tea-table  ;  the  mother  had  wrung  out  the 
last  little  garment — and  the  whole  collection  lay  piled  in  the 
large  white  basket ;  the  water  was  poured  from  the  washing- 
tub,  the  tub  set  up,  the  stool  on  which  it  stood  put  aside,  the 
whole  kitchen  then  looked  in  perfect  order,  the  mother  drew 
down  her  sleeves,  changed  her  coarse  blue  apron  for  a  white 
one,  and  in  they  all  went  to  tea.  The  baby  sleeping  in  its 
cradle  had  waked  up  some  minutes  before  ;  but  Betsy  had  lifted 
it  out  and  rocked  it  in  her  arms,  till  the  mother,  seated  in  the 
low  black  chair  beside  the  parlor-fire,  received  it  The  chil- 
dren dragged  out  their  stools  and  chairs,  Jttle  Esther,  the  child 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  247 

of  five  years — not  having  yet  learned  the  division  of  labor, 
pulled  hard  at  a  parlor  chair  for  herself  with  one  hand,  and  at 
the  poor  little  cripple's  high  chair  with  the  other.  Patience 
caught  sight,  amid  the  active  group,  of  little  Esther's  attempt, 
and,  running  up  to  her,  reached  over  her  head,  and  laying  hold 
of  both  chairs  pulled  gently  also,  when,  to  the  child's  perfect 
satisfaction,  both  chairs  moved  slowly  and  steadily  to  the  table. 
Esther  would  by  no  means  leave  her  hold  till  the  chairs  were 
drawn  quite  close,  so  Patience  slipped  behind  them  and  pushed, 
till  the  little  Esther,  stooping  half  under  the  table,  peeped  up 
with  a  grave  look,  and  suffered  Patience  to  lift  her  into  the 
parlor  chair,  gravely  observing,  "  I  did  pull  two  chair  !"  And 
through  ihe  heart  of  Patience  passed  a  warm  feeling  for  the 
child  ;  and  a  sense  of  active  life,  with  its  native  charm  of  cheer- 
ful energy,  rose  still  more  freshly  within  her  at  this  first  success- 
ful aid  rendered  to  the  child.  And  now  Betsy  placed  the  little 
cripple  in  his  chair,  and  Esther  looked  up  at  Betsy,  repeating, 
"  I  did  pull  two  chair  !"  and  Betsy  said,  "  Good  Esther  !"  ar.d 
hastened  away  to  fix  up  the  next  baby  of  eighteen  mouths  old. 
Now  there  was  one  small  blue  plate  set  down  between  Esther 
and  the  little  cripple  ;  Esther  put  her  hand  upon  it  by  way  of 
claim,  but  did  not  take  it  nearer,  then  the  little  cripple  reached 
out  his  hand  and  said,  "  Me  !  Me  !"  Esther  shook  her  head,  for 
it  was  hard  to  give  up  the  plate  that  was  the  earnest  to  her  of 
food,  but  Patience,  whose  attention  was  all  alive,  caught  sight 
of  the  difficulty,  and  put  another  blue  plate  close  before  Esther, 
who  then  pushed  the  other  gently  to  her  little  brother,  and 
looking  up  at  Patience,  said,  "  I  did  give  it  him  !" 

All  the  little  ones  being  seated,  Betsy  cut  the  bread  and  but- 
ter, Robert  a  piece  of  cake  for  each,  Polly  filled  the  mugs  half 
full  of  water,  and  poured  water  into  the  tea-pot  for  the  tea,  while 
all  the  little  ones  looked  on.     This  divided  labor  was  quickly 


248  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

accomplished,  after  which  the  mother  stood  up  witn  her  baoe 
in  her  arms,  the  elder  children  stood  also,  and  Robert  asked  the 
blessing — for  at  meals,  when  the  father  was  away,  this  was 
always  Robert's  office.  Patience  had  a  corner  at  the  table,  and 
made  as  hoarty  a  meal  as  any  of  them :  the  good  mother  seeing 
her  hesitate  at  first,  took  care  to  say,  "  Come,  Patience,  girl, 
make  haste,  you  have  earned  your  tea,  though  you  may  not 
think  it !"  There  was  no  riot  at  the  meal — the  children,  trained 
to  good  order,  found  no  pleasure  in  confusion  ;  and  having  had 
no  food  since  their  early  frugal  dinner,  their  best  amusement 
was  to  eat.  All  the  play  had  come  before  tea,  and  now  the 
moment  it  was  over,  and  Robert  had  given  thanks,  while  every 
little  one  was  silent  with  clasped  hands,  Betsy  and  Polly  took 
off  the  baby  of  eighteen  months  and  the  little  cripple  each  in 
their  arms  to  bed,  and  the  mother  bid  Patience  follow  with 
Esther,  who  looked  very  grave,  but  quite  willing  to  go  with  her 
helper  of  the  tea-table.  Patience  found  that  Esther  was  to  share 
hor  little  bed,  in  a  room  just  large  enough  to  hold  the  bed  and 
one  chair.  The  little  cripple  and  the  baby  of  eighteen  months 
were  soon  laid  to  their  sleep,  and  Betsy  went  down  with  Polly 
to  bring  up  the  twin  boys  of  seven.  When  Patience  returned 
to  the  parlor,  the  tea-table  was  cleared  of  all  that  had  been 
used,  and  what  remained  wa.s  set  in  order  for  the  father's  return  ; 
.;he  boys,  having  so  arranged  the  table,  were  already  at  their 
tasks  for  school  the  next  day,  and  the  mother  putting  the  infant 
to  rest.  Patience  was  set  to  wash  up  the  tea-things  in  the 
back-kitchen  ;  while  Betsy  and  Polly  sat  down  to  their  lessons. 
"Die  baby  slept  in  the  cradle  ;  and  when  Patience  had  finished 
washing  up  the  tea-things,  and  had  been  shown  where  to 
put  them  away,  her  good  mistress  said,  "  Now  for  your  thimble, 
as  quick  as  possible  !"  And  Patience  had  a  seat  at  the  table, 
and  one  of  the  children's  socks  given  her  to  darn.    But  Patience 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  249 

was  no  damer,  she  had  never  been  taught,  for  there  ai"e  bat  few 
schools  in  which  any  pains  is  taken  to  +,each  children  to  mend, 
though  to  the  children  of  the  poor  the  skill  to  mend  well  is 
hardly  less  needful  than  to  make.  Poor  Patience  felt  her 
spirits  sink ;  she  could  not  do  the  work,  and  now  she  thought 
her  troubles  would  begin,  and  the  timid  child,  only  so  lately 
warmed  with  the  glow  of  kindness,  dreaded  a  sharp  word  more 
than  any  thing  !  But  shai'p  words  were  not  given  in  this  her 
new  abode  without  a  needs  be.  The  good  mistress  saw  the 
color  rise  to  the  pale  face  of  Patience  over  the  sock  ;  so  calling 
her  to  her,  she  said,  "  I  can  see  you  are  no  match  for  your  task  ^ 
well,  never  mind,  bring  your  stool  here,  and  sit  down  and  learn, 
there  will  be  no  time  lost  in  the  end  by  good  learning  in  the 
beginning !"  So  Patience  took  her  seat  by  her  mistress,  and 
learned  to  dam,  as  little  Jane  had  learned  by  her  mother's  side, 
only  that  Patience,  being  much  older,  learned  to  darn  a  great 
deal  quicker,  and  did  not  want  so  much  attention  as  Jane  had 
done.  While  Patience  darned,  the  four  children  who  were  sit- 
tmg  round  the  table  repeated  their  lessons  to  their  mother. 
They  had  had  tea  at  five  o'clock,  and  all  their  lessons  were  learned 
and  repeated  by  eight,  except  those  of  the  youngest  boy.  The 
moment  the  clock  struck  eight  the  books  were  all  put  away, 
and  the  boy  whose  lessons  were  not  learned,  with  a  sorrowful 
face  wished  his  mother  "  Good  night,"  and  went  up  to  bed  iu 
the  dark.  This  was  done  without  a  word  being  said,  for  it  was 
the  constant  rule  of  the  house  ;  if  the  school  lessons  were  not 
learned  from  six  to  eight,  no  more  time  was  given,  as  the  les- 
sons were  not  hard  or  long,  and  learned  in  less  time  whenever 
the  children  were  diligent ;  and  the  mother's  principle  was,  nei- 
ther in  work  nor  lessons  to  allow  time  to  be  wasted.  Then  the 
girls  sat  down  to  their  work  of  mending  or  making,  and  Robert 
to  knilting — the  boys  being  never   idle  when  the  girls  were 


250  MINISTEUING     CHI1.DKE1J 

busy.  Presently  home  came  the  father  to  their  glad  weicome  ; 
he  sat  down  to  his  tea  and  supper  both  in  one,  while  the  mother 
and  the  children  worked  and  talked,  and  Patience  darned  her  sock. 

As  soon  as  the  father's  supper  was  over,  Patience  cleared  all 
the  things  into  the  back-kitchen,  as  directed  ;  the  great  Bible  was 
put  on  the  table,  the  chiMren  brought  theirs.  Patience  was  sent 
to  fetch  her's — her  own  little  Bible  that  Miss  Wilson  had  taken 
her  in  her  first  place  of  service  ;  and  then  father  and  mothei 
and  children  all  read  a  chapter  verse  by  verse,  and  Patience  had 
to  read  with  them :  then  the  father  questioned  the  children, 
and  he  questioned  Patience  also,  and  looked  pleased  with  her 
answers ;  and  then  they  all  knelt  down,  and  the  father  ofiered 
up  the  evening  prayer.  After  this,  Robert  and  the  girls  went 
to  bed.  Patience  washed  up  and  put  away  the  things  from  her 
master's  supper ;  and  then  to  her  sui'prise  she  found  her  work 
was  done  ;  in  fact  every  body's  work  was  done,  for  all  the  house 
was  in  order,  and  Patience  went  up  to  her  closet  of  a  room 
where  Httle  Esther  lay  sleeping.  With  what  a  thankful  heart 
did  the  orphan  child  offer  up  her  evening  thanksgiving  and 
prayer  !  and  then  taking  her  ti'easured  half-crown — which  she 
had  kept  through  all  her  troubles  and  changes,  she  looked  at  it, 
and  wished  that  beautiful  lady  could  but  see  how  happy  she 
was  now  !  And  she  lay  down  to  sleep — as  if  suddenly  brought 
in  the  midst  of  a  home's  bright  circle  of  her  own. 

The  next  morning  her  mistress  called  her  at  six  o'clock,  and 
to  her  mistress's  surprise  Patience  came  out  from  her  closet 
ready  dressed.  She  had  heard  her  mistress  rising,  and  had 
risen  herself. 

"  What,  up  and  dressed  !"  said  her  mistress ;  "  well,  you  mind 
my  word,  I  never  knew  a  bad  servant  an  early  riser !  Now 
then,  we  shall  be  at  work  before  the  girls  to-day  !"  And  the 
pleasant  stir  soon  began  below     Patience  had,  as  quick  as  time 


MINISTERING     CHILDKEN.  251 

itself,  to  light  up  the  back-kitchen  fire ;  then  to  brighten  up 
and  lay  the  parlor  fire,  while  Betsy  followed  to  sweep  the 
room  and  dust  the  chairs ;  and  while  the  chairs  were  dusting, 
Polly  set  the  breakfast.  Robert  was  out  in  the  little  garden  fix- 
ing the  linen  poles ;  and  Thomas  the  second  boy,  chopping 
wood  and  filling  the  coal-scuttle,  while  the  good  mother  fried 
bacon  for  the  father's  breakfast,  and  made  the  coffee.  All  as 
busy  as  possible,  and  all  done  by  seven  o'clock  when  the  father 
came  down ;  he  had  been  reading  his  Bible  in  the  midst  of  his 
six  sleeping  children,  and  now  he  came  down  to  breakfast  with 
his  four  eldest.  Patience  also  was  called  to  the  table,  and  so 
they  sat  down  to  the  morning  meal.  Each  child  repeated  a 
text  from  the  Holy  Bible,  and  the  father  asked  Patience  if  she 
could  remember  one,  and  Patience  repeated  the  words — "  I  love 
them  that  love  Me ;  and  those  that  seek  Me  early  shall  find 
Me."  After  breakfast  the  father  read  a  Psalm,  then  offered  up 
the  morning  prayer,  and  hastened  away  to  be  at  the  shop  by 
eight  o'clock.  Then  Patience  went  up  stairs  with  Betsy  and 
Polly  to  dress  the  children — the  mother  prepared  their  break- 
fast ;  Robert  worked  in  the  little  garden,  which  had  its  Autumn 
as  well  as  its  Spring  and  Summer  flowers  ;  but  Thomas  had  to 
sit  within  and  get  his  lessons  perfect.  At  a  quarter  to  nine, 
boys  and  girls  were  off"  to  school ;  the  twin  boys  were  taken  to 
an  infant  school  by  their  elder  brothers  on  their  way  to  their 
own  school ;  the  poor  little  cripple  played  hour  after  hour  on 
his  sofa-bed  with  a  doll :  Esther  talked  to  Patience  and  stepped 
about  at  her  side,  while  the  baby  of  eighteen  months  old  some- 
times played  on  the  floor  and  sometimes  slept.  At  twelve 
o'clock  the  children  all  came  home,  when,  to  the  surprise  of 
Patience,  the  baby  of  eighteen  months  and  the  little  cripple  were 
put  into  a  light  wooden  carriage,  and  all  the  children  went  out 
for  a  w?lk  together — Robert  and  Betsy  taking  charge.     Then 


262  MINISTElllNU     CHILDREN. 

Patience  and  her  mistress  ironed  away  till  one  o'clock,  when 
they  all  returned.  Betsy  and  Polly  made  ready  the  little  ones ; 
Kobert  and  Thomas  set  the  dinner-table,  and  all  were  seated 
with  hungry  appetite  to  eat  the  food  provided  for  them. 

Day  after  day  passed  on,  till  Patience  felt  more  like  an  elder 
child  and  sister  than  a  servant  in  the  house.  Betsy  and  Polly 
confided  to  her  their  secret  hopes  :  Betsy's  desire  was  to  learn 
mantua-making,  and  be  a  lady's  maid — as  her  mother  had  been 
before  her;  and  to  this  end  her  mother  trained  her.  Polly 
meant  to  be  kitchen  maid  first,  and  then  cook,  with  the  hope 
of  being  one  day  a  housekeeper,  and  taking  charge  of  stores — 
which  seemed  to  her  the  most  interesting  of  work ;  accordingly 
every  jar  and  bottle  in  the  house  was  put  under  Polly's  keeping ; 
she  gave  out  the  daily  supply,  wi'ote  the  labels,  tied  down  the 
jars,  made  some  preserves  in  the  summer-time,  and  took  every 
opportunity  of  doing  the  cooking.  Robert  had  a  hope  of  being 
taken  in  Mr.  Mansfield's  shop,  wheref  his  father  was  foreman  ; 
while  Thomas  had  as  yet  no  definite  desire  or  prospect  in  life. 
Months  passed  away  in  this  happy  family,  till  all  the  paleness 
was  gone  from  the  cheek  of  Patience,  and  her  figure,  becoming 
stout  and  strong,  'seemed  made  for  untiring  work.  She  had 
taught  Esther  her  own  short  morning  and  evening  prayers — 
learned  by  her  when  at  school,  and  the  little  girl  now  never 
lay  down  at  night  or  rose  up  in  the  morning  without  oflTering 
them  up.  She  had  become  a  monthly  subscriber  to  the  Church 
Missionary  Society — her  master  with  his  ten  children  was  a 
subscriber ;  the  children  would  often  earn  or  save  some  offering 
for  it  also ;  and  when  Patience  received  her  monthly  wages, 
6he  always  paid  sixpence  for  the  same  blessed  object.  A  year 
passed  away,  and  Patience  went  to  call  on  Miss  Wilson,  but 
Miss  Wilson  did  not  know  her — could  not  believe  the  change, 
till  on  talking  with  lier  she   found  this   rosy,   strong,   active- 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  253 

looking  gir],  full  of  life  and  cheerful  spirits,  was  tlie  pale,  thin, 
silent  child,  she  had  known  so  long  at  school.  Patience  told 
Miss  Wilson  of  her  happy  life  in  her  mistress's  house — ^with  ten 
children,  and  she,  maid-of-all-work,  with  all  the  washing  done 
at  home  ;  and  how  the  little  one  who  slept  with  her,  had  learned 
her  prayer  and  said  it  night  and  morning,  and  how  her  master 
subscribed  to  the  Church  Missionary  Society — and  she  subscribed 
also.  And  there,  in  the  midst  of  life  and  cheerfulness,  we  leave 
Patience  for  the  present. 

Rose  had  done  with  school,  happy  at  the  thought  of  living 
always  at  home.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  her  happiness 
met  her  first  sorrow  in  the  loss  of  Miss  CHfibrd — she  had  stood 
between  her  father  and  William  at  the  funeral,  and  in  the  long 
summer  days  she  and  little  Mercy  had  cried  together.  The 
yellow  harvest  came  ;  and  when  the  reapers'  work  was  done 
and  the  last  sheaf  carried,  and  William  had  stood  aloft  on  the 
point  of  the  high  round  stack  with  the  last  sheaf  in  his  hand, 
before  he  laid  it  under  his  feet ;  and  the  men  in  a  circle  round 
had  sung  the  "  Harvest  Home ;"  and  the  fields  were  left  bare ; 
and  the  thresher's  flails  sounded  from  the  barn :  then  another 
sorrow  came  for  little  Rose — a  sorrow  for  her  home  and  for  the 
farm.  William  had  a  good  situation  offered  to  him  in  a  London 
shop.  Farmer  Smith's  brother  was  a  London  linen-draper; 
William  had  always  been  a  favorite  with  his  uncle,  and  now 
tiis  uncle's  son  had  left  the  shop  to  follow  a  business  he  liked 
better,  and  the  place  of  trust  which  he  had  held  was  offered  to 
William,  and  a  high  salary  was  offered  with  it — for  his  uncle 
washed  much  to  have  him,  and  knowing  William's-  love  for  the 
farm-work,  he  was  afraid  unless  he  made  the  offer  very  tempt- 
ing, that  it  would  be  declined.  But  it  was  not  money  that 
would  have  tempted  William  away  from  his  father's  farai,  if  it 
jad  not  been  for  his  father's  and  his  young  brother's  sakes.     It 


254  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

was  some  years  since  farmer  Smith  had  been  able  to  lay  by  any 
profits  :  in  one  bad  farming  year  he  had  been  obliged  to  borrow 
money  on  some  cottages  built  by  his  mother,  and  left  to  him  by 
her ;  he  had  been  unable  to  pay  the  money  or  the  interest 
upon  it,  and  now  the  cottages  were  no  longer  his — they  had 
become  the  property  of  the  man  who  lent  him  the  money — 
they  had  cleared  him  from  debt,  but  he  had  nothing  now  beyond 
the  yearly  produce  of  his  farm ;  and  one  bad  farming  year 
might  put  him  in  difficulty  again.  William  worked  like  a 
laborer  on  the  farm,  and  was  worth  two  other  men,  because 
his  mind  and  his  heart  were  in  all  he  did  ;  but  there  were  four 
younger  boys,  and  farmer  Smith  knew  not  how  he  should  pro- 
vide for  theuu  If  William  went  to  London,  it  was  not  unlikely 
that  he  mia:ht  find  situations  for  some  of  his  brothers  there. 
So  fanner  Smith  decided  that  WilHam  should  go — with  a  heavy 
heart  he  decided  that  William  should  go.  William  felt  as  if  all 
the  outward  joy  of  life  would  be  darkened  for  him — away  from 
his  home  and  his  father's  farm,  shut  up  all  day  where  fields  were 
out  of  reach ;  but  he  chose  the  higher  pleasure  of  doing  that 
which  would  be  most  likely  to  relieve  his  father  and  aid  his 
younger  brothers.  The  boys  thought  it  was  a  fine  thing  for 
William  to  go  to  London !  Rose  tried  to  be  as  cheerful  as  she 
could,  but  Mrs.  Smith  nev^er  gave  so  much  as  one  pleasant  look, 
from  the  time  that  it  was  decided  for  William  to  go. 

Mr.  Chfibrd  was  sitting  alone  in  his  study,  when  an  impatient 
knock  at  his  door  roused  him  from  his  book.  "  Come  in  !"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  guess  the  intruder.  Herbert  en- 
tered, out  of  breath  with  haste. 

"  Papa,  what  do  you  think  I  have  just  heard  in  the  village  ? — 
Young  Smith  is  going  off  directly  to  a  situation  in  London,  to 
a  shop,  only  think,  papa  !  I  would  not  lose  such  a  fellow  as  he 
\s  from  the  place  for  any  thing,  and  I  am  sure  he  would  not  go 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  256 

if  he  could  lielp  it !  don't  you  think  something  could  be  done 
to  prevent  it,  papa  f 

"  We  must  first  know  whether  his  friends  and  himself  would 
wish  any  thing  to  be  done  to  hinder  his  going ;  perhaps  they 
may  feel  it  to  be  to  his  future  advantage  to  go,  however  sorry 
they  may  all  be  at  present  to  lose  him." 

"  Well  then,  papa,  suppose  I  just  go  down  to  the  farm  and 
hear  ?" 

"  I  think  it  would  be  wise  to  go  and  learn  a  little  more  what 
the  facts  of  the  case  are,  before  you  and  I  decide  here  what  is 
to  be  done  to  prevent  it !" 

"  Well  then,  papa,  so  I  will,  and  I  will  come  and  tell  you." 

So  the  father  sufiered  the  boy  to  go  in  his  warm  impulse  to 
the  farm  ;  seated  in  the  great  farm-kitchen  he  gave  full  expres- 
sion to  his  thoughts  and  feelings  on  the  subject ;  Mrs.  Smith,  for 
the  first  time,  heard  opposition  to  the  plan,  equal  to  her  own  ;  she 
brought  the  young  Squire  her  home-made  wine  and  cake,  but 
he  was  too  intent  on  his  subject  to  partake  of  such  hospitality ; 
farmer  Smith  talked  the  subject  long  over  with  him,  and  child 
as  he  was,  told  him  the  hopes  he  had  built  on  his  eldest  son's  de- 
parture, as  if  he  had  been  a  long-trusted  friend — a  due  recom^ 
pense  for  the  boy's  warm  feeling  !  Herbert  returned  to  his  father 
more  than  ever  interested  for  the  Smiths,  and  for  William  in  par- 
ticular— but  convinced  that  it  would  not  be  the  thing  to  attempt 
to  hinder  the  London  plan.  Deep  in  William's  heart  sank  the 
memory  of  the  young  Squire's  unwillingness  to  lose  him  from 
the  place — the  warm  feeling  that  had  been  expressed  soothed  th^ 
pain  he  felt  at  going ;  it  cheered  his  father's  heart  to  think  how 
his  son  was  valued  by  those  above  him ;  and  even  Mrs.  Smith 
seemed  softened  into  more  gentleness  on  the  subject,  now  she 
knew  that  her  favorite  William  was  not  likely  to  be  forgotten  in 
his  native  village.     Such  the  large  results  that  oftentimes  might 


266  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

follow — lasting  on  enduringly,  from  the  spontaneous  feeling  and 
unchecked  expression  of  childhood's  true  appreciation  !  When 
the  autumn  winds  strewed  the  sere  leaves  upon  the  garden  paths 
at  the  farm,  there  was  no  neat  and  careful  William  to  sweep 
them  away — the  great  and  busy  city  had  received  him. 

Herbert's  tutor  did  not  find  in  his  pupil  the  love  of  books 
that  he  naturally  desired  in  one  whom  he  had  undertaken  to 
prepare  for  study  at  college,  and  he  communicated  to  Mr.  Clit- 
ford  his  anxiety  and  regret,  that  Herbert  engaged  by  so  many 
objects  of  interest,  did  not  make  the  progress  he  could  wish  in 
his  books. 

Mr.  Clifford  replied,  "  It  is  very  natural,  and  very  right,  that 
you  should  feel  anxious  on  such  a  subject ;  but  we  shall  gain 
nothing  by  straining  a  point,  no  compulsion  will  implant  the 
love  of  books  ;  and  we  have  need  to  remember  that  books  are 
but  the  scaffolding  for  erecting  the  mental  structure.  A  mere 
man  of  books  is  rather  a  ready-made  collection  of  material,  than 
a  living  influence.  It  is  my  belief  that  a  circle  of  human  life, 
gathered  by  sympathy's  natural  tie  around  a  child,  exercising 
every  good  and  self-denying  feeling  the  young  spirit  has,  is 
likely  to  rear  and  leave  a  far  nobler  character,  far  more  excels 
ling  in  power  and  influence,  than  the  mere  student  of  books. 
But  I  would  not  have  you  discouraged  even  as  to  Herbert's 
book-learning — I  find  him  an  increasingly  intelligent  companion, 
awake  to  every  subject  I  bring  before  him,  his  mind  free  and 
unburdened  by  the  weight  of  mere  acquirement.  He  is  follow- 
ing on  in  the  right  order — things  Heavenly  before  things 
earthly,  the  heart  before  the  head ;  and  though  I  may  not  live 
to  see  it,  I  am  not  without  the  hope  that  he,  who  as  a  child  has 
learned  to  minister  with  such  self-devotion  to  age  and  poverty 
may  yet  bnng  down  his  country's  blessing  on  his  head." 

The  tutor  pressed  his  patron's  hand  and  withdi'ew. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 


keI" — Luke  xvi  25. 

"TiniEN  the  next  summer-time  had  come,  filling  the  land  with 
"'  beauty,  and  fragrance,  and  plenty — telling  of  His  rich 
bounty  who  "  is  kind  to  the  unthankful  and  to  the  evil,"  "  and 
sendeth  rain  on  the  just  and  the  unjust,"  a  messenger  anived  at 
the  Hall,  asking  to  speak  with  Mr.  Herbert  Clifford. 

"  I  am  come  from  Mr.  Sturgeon,  sir,"  said  the  man  ;  "  he  is 
very  ill — thought  to  be  dying,  and  he  begs  you  to  pay  him  a 
visit  as  soon  as  possible." 

Herbert  went  to  his  father.  When  Mr.  Clifford  heard  the 
request,  he  said,  "  Go,  by  all  means."  Herbert  sent  word  by  the 
messenger  that  he  would  follow  immediately,  and  was  soon  on 
his  way  to  Mr.  Sturgeon's  residence.  Solemn  thoughts  filled 
his  mind,  he  was  sent  for  by  a  dying  man — what  could  it  be 
that  Mr.  Sturgeon  wanted  to  see  him  for  ?  Perhaps  he  wished 
before  he  died  to  do  something  for  old  Willy  *?— but  old  Willy 
bad  all  he  wanted  now ! 

Herbert  arrived  at  the  house,  and  one  of  Mr.  Sturgeon's  sons 
took  him  up  at  once  to  his  father's  room.  The  dying  man 
looked  at  him,  and  said,  "  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  coming  so  soon. 
Yon  are  the  only  person  in  all  the  world  I  wished  to  see,  for 
you,  dear  young  sir,  are  the  only  one  who  ever  came  to  me  with 
the  words  of  faithful  warning.  I  don't  mean  to  blame  my  fel- 
low-men, I- have  heard  th^  best  of  preachers  and  the  best  o<* 


258  MiNISTERING     CHILDREN. 

discourses,  but  from  all  this  I  could — I  did  sliield  myself.  OIl, 
why  did  none  come  to  me  with  the  pointed  arrow  of  truth,  and 
say  to  me  personally — '  You  are  casting  away  eternal  life  ! — 
you  are  putting  Earth  before  Heaven  ?'  You  did  come  to 
me,  you  did  warn  me,  and  I  wish  to  thank  you  for  what 
might  have  been  of  eternal  use  to  me  if  I  had  listened  to  your 
counsel." 

Then  Herbert  took,  not  as  before  the  smooth  stone  for  his 
sling,  but  the  balm  of  healing  and  life,  from  the  Epistle  of  St. 
James — all  of  which  he  had  l^rned  by  heart.  "  It  is  written 
in  the  Bible,"  said  Herbert,  " '  The  prayer  of  faith  shall  save  the 
sick,  and  the  Lord  shall  raise  him  up ;  and  if  he  have  com- 
mitted sins  they  shall  be  forgiven  him  !'  " 

Mr.  Sturgeon  seemed  not  to  hear,  or  not  to  heed  the  words 
of  peace. '  "  Oh,  it  is  not  the  future,  but  the  past,"  he  went  on 
to  say,  "  that  presses  on  my  soul  with  its  iron  yoke — wherever 
I  turn  I  seem  to  hear  a  voice,  and  it  says  to  me,  "  Son,  remem- 
ber ;" — ^it  says  no  more,  but  in  those  words  there  seems  destruc- 
tion. I  do  nothing  but  remember,  and  in  remembrance  there 
seems  despair !" 

*'  But,"  said  Herbert,  "  our  Saviour  said  we  were  to  remember 
Him — and  that  must  be  hope  1" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it — He  said  we  were  to  remember  Him  !  and 
if  I  had  remembered  Him  then,  now  I  might  have  hope  ;  but 
I  have  lived  to  forget  Him — I  have  forgotten  Him  in  the  very 
church,  where  I  professed  to  worship  Him — I  have  forgotten 
Him  in  secret,  where  I  might  have  found  Him  and  made  Him 
my  own  forever — I  have  forgotten  Him  in  business,  where  I 
have  taken  the  opinions  of  man,  and  not  the  heart-searching  law 
of  Christ  for  my  rule — I  have  forgotten  Him  in  the  world, 
where  I  have  been  more  careful  to  honor  myself  than  to  show 
forth  His  praise — I  have  forgotten  Him  in  my  so-called  chaiities, 


p.  25S. 


MINISTEiiING     CHILDREN.  259 

for  I  still  dared  to  give  in  my  own  name  that  which  but  for  the 
gain  of  oppression,  might  never  have  been  mine — Yes,  I  have 
forgotten  Him,  and  now  He  knows  me  not !" 

The  dying  man  made  no  mention  of  old  Willy ;  he  could 
take  a  just  estimate  of  sin  now,  and  the  sin  of  forgetting  God, 
of  thinking  more  of  himself  than  of  Hina — ^the  Lord  of  Glory 
— who  died  to  open  Heaven's  gate  to  sinners,  swallowed  up  the 
sense  of  all  beside.  He  had  sinned  against  old  Willy,  sinned 
against  man,  it  was  true ;  but  the  thought  of  this  for  a  time 
was  lost  in  the  overpowering  sense  that  he  had  sinned  against 
Heaven,  and  before  God.  The  dying  man  gave  Herbert  his 
hand,  and  said,  "  Dear  young  sir  !  I  can  say  no  more  ;  I  wished 
to  give  you  my  thanks,  and  to  tell  you  freely  that  you  was  right 
and  I  was  wrong,  and  that  '  the  way  of  transgressors  is  hard  !' 
May  you  reap  the  fruit  of  that  truth  which  you  tried  in  vain  to 
plant  in  my  heart !"  Herbert  rode  slowly  and  mournfully 
away. 

The  road  home  lay  past  old  Willy's  cottage ;  and  there  in 
that  warm  summer  afternoon,  sat  the  old  man  on  the  bench 
beside  his  door,  his  hands  resting  on  his  staff,  his  broad-brimmed 
hat  shading  his  eyes,  and  his  head  bowed  in  slumber ;  beside 
him  bloomed  the  rose  and  honeysuckle — while  over  him  hung 
the  large  leaves  of  the  vine  ;  Herbert's  hand  had  planted  them 
— meet  emblems  of  the  Earthly  and  the  Heavenly  love  by  which 
the  old  man's  life  was  blessed !  Herbert  left  his  horse  with  the 
groom,  and  walked  up  the  straight  path  to  the  cot*^ge. 
Swiftly  had  he  run  up  that  same  path  at  the  head  of  the 
game-keeper's  boys,  to  rear  up  a  blazing  fire  on  old  Willy's 
hearth ;  he  had  rushed  up  the  same  nan-ow  path  to  shout  the 
glad  tidings  to  old  Willy  that  the  home  of  all  his  life  was  to 
be  his  dwelling  still ;  he  had  hastened  with  light  foot,  bearing 
the  old  man's  coat,  his  father's  Christmas  gift :  but  now  his  step 


260  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

was  slowor,  for  it  bore  to  old  Willy's  side  a  heart  oppressed  With 
thought  and  feeling.  Herbert  felt  as  if  he  wanted  to  see  the 
old  man,  to  hear  him  speak,  to  hear  him  tell  of  Heaven  and  his 
own  bright  hope,  to  dispel  the  gloom  that  had  gathered  round 
his  spirit.  Herbert  went  to  old  Willy,  not  now  to  give,  but  to 
receive.  He  stopped  a  little  distance  from  the  bench,  unwilling 
to  awake  his  aged  friend  ;  he  stopped  and  looked  at  him — his 
feeble,  wasted  frame,  his  white  locks  on  his  shoulders,  his  labor- 
worn  hands ;  and  that  green  life  and  fragrant  blossoming  of 
nature  round  him — ^its  bright  freshness  in  strong  contrast  with 
his  withered  form.  Herbert  felt  how  he  loved  that  lone  and 
frail  old  man ;  and  as  he  felt  how  he  loved  him,  he  looked  on 
the  cottage  his  love  had  prepared — there  rose  the  firm  whit© 
walls,  its  close-fitting  window  and  door,  its  warm  and  sheltering 
roof;  there  lay  the  little  garden  before  it,  where  plant,  and  herb, 
and  tree  seemed  to  grow  rejoicingly  out  of  the  ground — ^pleas- 
ant to  the  eye,  and  good  for  the  food  of  that  old  man  :  and  then 
in  the  hush  of  that  summer  afternoon,  a  still  small  voice  spoke 
within  Herbert's  heart,  and  said,  "  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it 
unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto 
Me !"  Herbert  looked  up  to  the  cloudless  sky  above  his  head, 
as  if  he  thought  to  see  Him  whose  wordS  then  spoke  within  him ; 
he  looked  up,  and  he  felt  that  old  Willy's  God  and  Saviour  and 
his  God  and  Saviour  looked  down  in  love  on  him,  and  the  gloom 
and  the  weight  were  gone  from  his  heart,  and  the  light  and  the 
love  of  Heaven  were  there.  Old  Willy  had  slept  in  his  young 
master's  moment  of  need,  but  the  God  of  all  such  as  old  Willy 
never  slumbereth  or  sleepeth,  and  He  hath  said,  "  If  thou  draw 
out  thy  soul  to  the  hungry,  and  satisfy  the  afflicted  soul,  then 
shall  thy  light  rise  in  obscmity,  and  thy  darkness  as  the  noon- 
day!" 

Now  Herbert  felt  as  if  he  no  longer  needed  to  stay  and 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  261 

speak  to  old  Willy,  for  Heavenly  peace  had  come  without ; 
and  thouirh  he  still  felt  solemnized  and  sad — ^for  the  sorrow 
he  had  witnessed  of  one  who  had  lightly  esteemed  the  Rock 
of  our  salvation,  yet  the  chill  and  the  gloom  were  gone,  and 
his  need  supplied.  But  as  he  turned  to  go,  old  Willy  raised 
his  head,  and  seeing  the  young  Squire  turning  away,  he  rose 
as  quickly  as  he  could,  and  taking  off  his  hat,  said,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir !" 

"  What  for  ?"  asked  Herbert,  as  he  turned  again,  and  sitting 
down  on  the  bench  laid  his  hand,  on  old  Willy's  arm,  making 
him  sit  down  by  his  side. 

"  Do  you  know,  Willy,  that  Mr.  Sturgeon  is  dying  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  sure  !  not  dying !" 

•*  Yes,  they  think  him  Hying  !  and  he  sent  for  me,  to  tell  me 
that  I  was  right  when  I  pleaded  for  you  :  but,  O  Willy,  it  was 
dreadful,  for  he  has  no  hope,  and  I  could  not  comfort  him  !" 

"  Well,  master,  'tis  better  so,  than  if  he  had  a  false  hope  !" 

"  But  nothing  can  be  worse  than  no  hope,  Willy,  and  he  has 


NO  HOPE 


!" 


"  Yes,  master,  'tis  better  to  feel  it.  If  the  true  Hope  be  not 
there,  'tis  better  to  have  lost  hold  of  every  other  ;  for  then  maybe 
they  will  feel  after  the  true  Hope  and  find  it :  maybe  they  will 
look  up  to  their  Saviour  from  the  very  gate  of  death  itself  as  the 
dying  thief  did.  Oh  what  a  look  he  cast  upon  the  Lord  ! — 
And  that  look  found  salvation  in  the  Saviour  for  him,  and  he 
went  into  Paradise  with  the  Son  of  God  !" 

"  Then,  Willy,  you  think  Mr.  Sturgeon  may  find  hope  in  our 
Saviour  even  now  ?" 

"  I  pray  God  he  may  !"  replied  old  Willy  fervently. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  he  might !"  exclaimed  Herbert.  And  then  giving 
a  smile  to  old  Willy,  in  which  love  and  hope  struggled  with  hia 
lingering  sadness  of  expression  he  departed. 


262  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Tlie  dying  man  passed  away  from  Earth,  and  never  could  the 
boy,  througli  life,  forget  the  death-bed  where  the  Saviour  was 
not. 

The  traces  of  bereavement  and  sorrow  were  marked  most 
visibly  in  Mr.  Clifford.  The  mother  and  the  boy  had  felt  their 
loss  no  less,  but  a  light  had  sprung  up  for  them  on  every  side, 
in  the  general"  service  of  love  to  which  they  had  turned  ;  they 
had  taken  their  departed  Mary's  bright  ministry,  and  the  heai'ts 
that  mourned  for  her  now  looked  to  them  for  comfort.  To 
Mrs.  Clifford  the  personal  work  was  new,  and  its  results 
charmed  with  the  sweet  surprise  of  a  power  to  bless,  compara- 
tively untried  before.  And  then  she  was  not  companionless  in 
the  work  ;  her  boy,  her  precious  boy,  once  so  wild  and  willful, 
was  her  ardent  companion,  and  shared  the  new  interest  to  the 
full !  But  the  father  had  lost  the  one,  who,  from  life's  earliest 
childhood,  had  walked  and  rode  by  beside  him,  visited,  studied, 
read  with  him ;  he  found  but  one  thing  able  to  soothe  the 
aching  void  her  absence  left — that  one  thing  the  Word  of  God, 
that  was  his  solace  now,  it  took  his  lost  one's  place.  It  soon 
became  evident  how  high  the  fountain  of  eternal  Truth  rues 
above  its  purest  streams,  how  deep  the  well-spring  of  eternal 
Love,  compared  with  the  most  purified  of  earthly  vessels. 
Continual  converse  with  the  Dinne  Word  irradiated  all  his  life 
with  Heavenly  Light — the  "  conversation  in  Heaven,"  the  con- 
stant thought  for  others,  the  tone  of  deeper  feeling,  the  calmer 
firmness  even  of  censure,  all  bore  witness  of  a  drawing  nearer 
to  the  Home  of  perfect  Love  and  Truth,  a  rising  now  in  spirit 
to  breathe  more  of  its  pure  atmosphere  while  still  on  Eaith. 
But  failing  health  denied  him  all  active  effort ;  and  his  bowed 
form  and  feebler  step  told  of  Earth's  decay.  Change  of  scene 
and  climate  were  urged  as  the  only  hope  of  imparting  new 
vigor.     Mr.  Clifford  at  first  refused,  but  at  last  yielded   te  Mrs. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  263 

Clifford's  anxiety  a  reluctant  consent,  and  arrangements  wer<5 
made  without  delay  for  going  tliat  autumn  to  Italy. 

Wlien  Mr.  Clifford  had  consented  to  leave  his  home  for  a 
foreign  land,  he  sent  for  the  aged  Minister  of  the  place,  and  re- 
ceiving him  alone  in  his  study,  addressed  him,  sajring,  "  I  have 
sent  for  you,  dear  sir,  to  say  to  you  as  a  dying  man,  which  I 
believe  myself  to  be,  what  I  ought  long  ago  to  have  said  to  you 
in  health.  You  were  appointed  to  hold  the  Lantern  of  the 
"Word  of  Life  to  this  people,  but  you  show  them  not  its  Light : 
you  preach  its  moral  precepts,  but  He  in  whose  light  alone  any 
can  see  the  light  of  Life  you  shew  them  not,  and  therefore  all 
your  teaching  is  dark  and  dead — unable  to  quicken  one  soul 
unto  eternal  Life,  unable  to  guide  one  wanderer  into  the  narrow 
way.  I  beseech  you  to  consider  what  I  say,  for  your  own  sake, 
and  the  sake  of  your  people.  And  let  me  entreat  you  to  pray 
earnestly  that  the  Spirit  of  Christ — by  whom  alone  He  can  bo 
revealed,  may  yet  be  given  you  to  enlighten  the  eyes  of  your 
understanding,  that  you  may  yet  know  the  sinner's  only  true 
ground  of  confidence — Christ  in  you  the  hope  of  glory.  Forgive 
me  for  speaking  plainly ;  alas !  I  ought  years  ago  to  have  warned 
you  in  faithfulness,  as  I  do  now !  I  have  also  a  request  to  make, 
I  make  it  as  the  request  of  your  dying  patron — that  you  will 
allow  me  before  I  go  to  provide  a  curate  to  aid  you  in  your 
ministry  here.  I  will  furnish  you  with  his  yearly  salary.  I  will 
promise  that  he  shall  be  one  who  will  walk  in  all  lowliness  to- 
ward you  and  toward  all  men,  one  whom  you  may  make  a 
stay  and  comfort  in  your  declining  years ;  but  one  also  who  will 
teach  and  preach  Chnst  Jesus — that  Saviour  who  bore  my  dying 
child  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  causing  the 
dark  valley  for  her  to  glow  with  the  glory  of  His  presence — 
that  Saviour,  to  whom  I  look  in  humble  hope  of  His  infinite 
mercy  to  bear  and  carry  me — that  Saviour,  dear  sir,  whom  you 


264  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

will  need ;  without  whom  there  is  no  salvation — and  it  will  be 
my  earnest  prayer  that  in  hearing  Him  preached,  you  may  be 
enabled  to  lay  hold  on  the  Hope  set  before  you  m  the  gospel." 

The  aged  Minister  did  not  refuse  his  Patron's  wish,  did  not 
refuse  to  hearken  unto  counsel :  it  sounded  to  him  as  a  thrice- 
repeated  warning — first  heard  in  the  sobs  of  his  people  who 
wept  at  their  young  teacher's  grave,  then  in  old  Willy's  simple 
words,  and  now  from  the  lips  of  one  who  had  always  treated 
him  with  kindness  and  consideration. 

Before  Mr.  Clifford  left,  he  assembled  all  his  tenants  and  de- 
pendants to  a  dinner  provided  in  his  park.  After  the  repast,  the 
different  groups  were  gathered  in  one,  and  Mr.  Clifford  came 
among  them,  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  his  boy,  on  whom 
he  leaned '.'then  uncovering  his  head,  he  said,  in  a  voice  dis- 
tinctly heard,  "  My  friends,  I  am  going  a  long  journey,  and  I 
wished  to  take  my  leave  of  you.  I  am  not  going  by  my  own 
desire,  for  I  would  myself  have  chosen  to  abide  the  will  of  God 
here,  whatever  that  may  be ;  but  our  own  feelings  must  some- 
times yield  to  the  judgment  of  others.  I  wished,  before  I  left,  to 
thank  you  for  the  affection  you-  have  manifested  toward  me  and 
mine.  In  the  earlier  days  of  my  residence  among  you  some  pain 
might  have  been  spared  to  you  and  to  me,  if  you  had  better 
understood  my  aims  and  wishes,  and  if  I  perhaps  had  had  more 
skill  and  patience  in  making  them  known  to  you.  But  we  have 
now,  I  believe,  lived  long  enough  in  connection  to  gain  mutual 
confidence.  If  there  be  any  among  you  who  have  any  grievance 
past  or  present  to  complain  of,  I  ask  them,  with  all  fiiendliness 
of  feeling  toward  them,  to  come  and  state  it  to  me  before  I  go, 
that,  God  permitting,  I  may  leave  no  thorn  behind  in  any  heart 
without  the  prayerful  effort  to  remove  it  thence.  For  all  in 
which  I  have  been  wanting  toward  you,  I  ask  your  forgiveness 
in  the  s^'ght  of  Heaven :  and  most  of  all,  that  I  have  not  done 


MINI3TERING     CHILDREN.  266 

more  to  teach  you  the  good  and  the  right  way.  I  have  desired 
you  should  know  it,  but  I  have  made  too  Httle  effort  to  accom 
plish  that  desire ;  I  pray  you  seek  it  for  yourselves  more 
earnestly  than  I  have  sought  it  for  you,  for  the  promise  that 
they  shall  find  the  Lord  and  Giver  of  Life  is  given  to  none  but 
those  who  seek  with  all  their  heart.  One  blessed  child  I  had 
who  hved  and  died  among  you,  and  I  may  safely  say  to  you, 
*  Be  ye  followers  of  her,  as  she  was  of  Christ.'  I  commend 
my  son  to  your  prayers,  that  he  may  have  gi*ace  from  above  to 
commend  himself  to  your  affections.  And  now,  my  friends,  *  1 
commend  you  to  God,  and  to  the  Word  of  His  grace,  which  ia 
able  to  build  you  up,  and  to  give  you  an  inheritance  among  all 
them  which  are  sanctified — through  faith  which  is  in  Christ 
Jesus.' " 

Thus  it  was  the  Squire  took  his  leave.  One  thing  more  he 
did,  and  that  was  to  see  a  white  marble  slab  raised  on  the  wall 
within  the  village  church,  where  all  the  poor  could  see  it,  and 
on  it  was  written  his  daughter's  name,  and  age,  and  place  of 
residence,  and  this  text,  "  Remember  ye  not,  that  when  I  was 
with  you,  I  told  you  these  things  ?" 

Herbert  took  leave  of  old  Willy.  "  Never  mind,  dear  Willy  !" 
said  the  boy  with  choking  utterance,  "  I  shall  come  back  again 
to  take  care  of  you ;  I  shall  never  forget  you,  and  you  will  live 
here  in  quiet,  and  every  body  will  be  kind  to  you  when  they 
know  I  am  gone  !"  And  the  old  man  blessed  him,  weeping ! 
The  family  drove  from  the  Hall — the  road  side  lined  with  those 
v/ho  mourned  their  loss :  they  left  their  home  for  a  foreign  land. 
There,  with  the  same  devotion  with  which  he  had  watched  his 
dying  sister,  Herbert  tended  his  dying  parent ;  and  the  natural 
impetuosity  of  his  character  deepened  into  quiet  strength.  Mr. 
Clifford  lived  six  months  abroad,  and  then  he  died.  He  said, 
"  I  have  not  the  same  radiant  sunbeam  of  faith  that  lighted  my 

12 


266  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

xMaiy's  steps  througli  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  ;  hut 
I  have  the  peace  of  an  assured  hope  that  my  Saviour  hath  loved 
me,  and  washed  me  from  my  sins  in  His  own  blood ;  and  that 
because  He  lives,  I  shall  live  also." 

Mrs.  Chflford  felt  unable  to  return  to  her  home  after  this  be- 
reavement ;  she  decided  to  remain  abroad  until  the  time  when 
it  would  be  necessary  for  Herbert  to  return  for  his  studies  at 
college.  Herbert  worked  diligently  with  his  tutor ;  but  the 
Book  he  loved  the  best  was  his  father's  Greek  Testament — ^his 
father's  constant  companion  in  the  last  years  of  his  life,  and  his 
parting  gift  to  Herbert.  With  this  he  would  wander  forth  be- 
fore his  mother's  time  of  rising,  while  the  early  morning  glowed 
in  rose  and  purple  on  the  snowy  mountain  heights  and  the 
overhanging  clouds,  winding  alone  through  the  steep  mountain- 
path  ;  or,  when  evening  fell,  seated  in  the  Swiss  peasant's  lowly 
chalet,  reading  of  the  "  Lamb  of  God  who  taketh  away  the  sin 
of  the  world."  Then  again  in  some  boat  of  transport  on  lake  or 
river,  while  his  mother  yielded  herself  to  the  calm  influence  of 
Earth  and  Sky,  as  they  glided  on  between  the  blue  water  below 
and  bluer  Heaven  above,  Herbert  with  the  same  Book  of  Life 
— the  same  small  Book  his  hand  could  cover,  but  whose  span 
was  infinite,  and  date  eternal — with  that  wondrous  Book,  Her- 
bert would  talk  to  the  benighted  sailors,  or  the  traveling 
peasants,  or  not  seldom  to  some  company  of  Romish  priests — 
winning  the  hearts  of  even  those  whose  spiritual  fetters  he  could 
not  break,  till  sometimes  the  young  priest  would  take  his  leave 
with  his  arms  encircling  the  neck  of  his  gentle,  but  dauntless 
opponent.  Thus  passed  away  Herbert's  early  youth — while  he 
gazed  intently  on  the  volume  of  Nature's  beauty ;  the  volume 
of  man's  recorded  thoughts ;  and  the  volume  of  Di^^ne  Inspi- 
ration. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

Pure  religion  and  nndefiled  before  God  and  tie  Father  Is  this,  To  visit  tho  father^ 
leas  and  widows  in  tlieir  affliction,  and  to  keep  Idmself  unspotted  from  the  world." 
—James  i.  27. 

"  Why  should  we  fear,  youth's  draught  of  joy, 
If  pure,  would  sparkle  less  ? 
Why  should  the  cup  the  sooner  cloy, 
Which  God  hath  deigned  to  bless  ?'* 

rpHE  arrival  of  the  curate  in  the  village  was  a  subject  of  great 
-*-  interest,  and .  tended  more  than  any  other  event  probably 
could,  to  alleviate  the  sorrow  felt  on  the  departure  of  the  Squire's 
family.  Many  there  were  who  went  to  church  on  the  first  Sun- 
day, in  expectation  and  hope,  and  among  these  was  little  Rose  ; 
her  face  gathered  bngktness  when  the  prayers  were  read  with 
fervent  distinctness,  but  as  the  new  minister  preached,  it  became 
beaming  with  joy ;  and  no  sooner  had  they  passed  the  Church's 
door,  than  Rose  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  father !  that  is  just  liko  our 
Minister  at  school,  that  is  exactly  how  he  preached,  Oh,  I  am  so 
glad !     Did  you  not  like  that  father  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  could  sit  all  day  to  hear  such  words  as  those. 
I  thank  God  he  is  come  in  my  time  !" 

Mrs.  Smith  had  hastened  on  before  with  a  still  quicker  step 
than  usual,  and  when  Rose  reached  home  with  her  father,  her 
mother  was  already  preparing  the  dinner.  If  Rose  had  looked 
at  her  mother's  face  she  would  have  seen  no  pleased  expression 
there,  but  she  was  too  full  of  delight  to  question  the  possibility 
of  any  one  feeling  different ;  so  she  ran  into  the  family  kitchen, 


268  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

and  exclaimed  at  once,  "  Oli,  mother !  was  not  that  beautiful 
preaching  ?     That  was  just  like  our  minister  at  school !" 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith  ;  "  it  may  be 
beautiful  enough  for  some,  but  certainly  not  for  me  !" 

"  What !  did  you  not  like  it,  mother  ?" 

"  Like  it,  child !  I  don't  know  who  would  like  to  be  told  that 
when  they  had  done  their  best,  and  lived  respected  as  I  have 
done,  and  always  kept  their  church,  that  for  all  that  they  must 
turn  and  seek  the  same  way  to  Heaven  as  the  worst  of  sin- 
ners !" 

"  O,  mother !  that  is  because  Jesus  our  Saviour  is  the  way,  as 
the  minister  said  in  his  text — '  No  man  cometh  unto  the  Father 
but  by  Me.' " 

"  Well,  child,  I  don't  know  as  to  what  the  way  may  be,  I  only 
know  I  have  lived  a  very  diflferent  life  from  many,  and  I  don't 
choose  to  be  mixed  up  with  them,  as  if  I  were  the  same  as 
they !" 

"  But,  mother,  it 's  because  Jesus  our  Saviour  is  the  only  way 
to  Heaven,  and  every  one  must  come  to  Him  who  wants  to  go 
to  Heaven ;  and  He  can  take  all  their  sins  away  !  Miss  Clifford 
said  she  wanted  to  come  to  Jesus  our  Saviour  !" 

"  Well,  child,  that  might  be,  for  Miss  Clifford  never  did  seem 
to  consider  herself  above  the  lowest ;  but  for  my  part,  I  can't 
come  to  that,  but  I  don't  mean  to  talk  about  it,  there  is  no  need 
for  you  to  change  your  mind,  nor  I  mine  !"  Rose  said  no  more, 
her  sudden  joy  was  dashed  as  suddenly  with  disappointments 
From  this  time  Mrs.  Smith  made  a  point  of  never  going  to 
church  when  she  knew  the  cui'ate  was  to  preach ;  her  temper 
became  more  trying  to  all  around  her,  and  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  comfort  of  the  Sunday's  sermons.  Rose  and  her  father 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  keep  up  their  spirits  through  the 
week. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  2G9 

What  was  pain  to  Mrs.  Smith  was  not  only  comfort  to  Rose 
and  her  father,  it  was  also  joy  to  old  Willy.  Twice  on  the 
Sabbath-day  the  old  man  climbed  the  hill,  supported  by  hia 
staflp,  and  the  glad  sound  was  always  new  life  to  him.  The 
weekly  visits  also  of  the  curate  were  his  delight ;  but  he  always 
questioned  him  as  to  whether  any  tidings  had  been  heard  of  hia 
young  master ;  and  he  said  it  was  a  heart-aflfecting  thing  that 
he,  an  old  man  as  he  was,  should  hve  to  see  the  young  and 
good  pass  clear  away  like  that — one  taken  up  above,  and  the 
other  into  foreign  parts  !  Eut  when  at  last  a  letter  came  to  the 
curate,  and  a  message  in  it  to  old  Willy,  written  with  Herbert's 
own  hand  all  those  miles  away,  joy  lighted  up  the  old  man's 
eye,  and  he  exclaimed.  "  Who  can  tell,  but  I'shall  see  him  again 
before  I  die  !"  The  faithful  Jem  seemed  to  consider  old  Willy 
now  as  his  peculiar  charge,  scarcely  a  day  passed  that  he  did 
not  look  in  at  the  cottage.  The  little  plot  of  garden-ground  he 
took  under  his  entire  care — ^there,  early  and  late,  was  heard 
his  busy  spade ;  it  was  Jem  who  dug  up  and  stowed  under 
gi'ound  the  bright  red  potatoes,  to  protect  them  from  the  snow  ; 
Jem,  who  managed  to  buy  the  old  man's  coals  at  less  cost  in 
the  town,  and  brought  them  back  in  a  return  waggon  of  farmer 
Smith's ;  Jem,  who,  when  the  snow  had  melted,  planted  in  the 
early  vegetables ;  tended  the  flowers  as  spring  came  on  ;  cut  the 
garden  hedge  ;  and  trained  the  vine  above  the  lattice-window  ; 
in  short,  Jem,  the  old  man  said,  tended  him  like  a  prince  ! 
Little  Mercy,  too,  would  often  step  up  to  the  cottage  and  find 
out  work  the  old  man  wanted  done  ;  when  his  sight  was  dim  she 
would  read  to  him ;  and  sometimes  she  would  take  her  knitting 
up  and  sit  and  sing  to  him.  Thus  was  old  Willy  tended  still 
and  comforted. 

A  year  and  six  months  had  passed  away  since  William  left 
his  home,  and  he  had  not  been  down  once  to  visit  it.     Hia 


270  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

father  had  written  in  the  autumn,  and  wi'itten  again  at  Christ- 
mas, to  ask  him  to  come  ;  but  William  returned  for  answer  that 
he  could  see  no  prospect  yet  of  doing  any  thing  for  his  brothers, 
nor  therefore  of  returning  himself  to  live  at  home ;  and  that 
till  he  did,  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  come,  for  fear  he 
should  lose  his  resolution,  and  not  return  to  his  work  in  Lon- 
don any  more.  But  he  sent  his  love  to  his  mother,  and  he  still 
hoped  to  sow  and  reap  again  with  his  father  for  her ;  his  love 
to  Joe  and  Samson,  and  he  still  hoped  to  >make  great  men  of 
them ;  his  love  to  Ted,  and  the  first  good  berth  he  could  find 
on  board  ship  should  be  his — if  he  would  learn  well  at  school 
first ;  his  love  to  little  Tim,  and  he  would  come  home  some  day 
and  teach  him  to  plough,  and  till  then  Tim  was  to  be  sure  and 
take  care  of  Black  Beauty  ;  and  finally  his  love  to  Rose,  and  she 
must  come  up  and  sfee  him  in  London  ;  and  so,  wishing  a  happy 
Christmas  to  them  all,  ended  William's  second  Christmas  letter. 

When  the  Spring-time  came,  tidings  arrived  in  the  village  of 
the  death  of  the  Squire,  and  the  continued  residence  of  his  lady 
and  her  son  abroad.  The  loss  was  much  felt,  for  the  Squire  was 
greatly  beloved ;  and  it  was  all  the  more  felt  because  his  afiairs 
were  left  in  such  perfect  order,  that  no  tenant's  sense  of  the  loss 
of  a  friend  was  turned  into  anxiety  as  to  pei*sonal  concerns  ;  all 
felt  a  friend  and  counselor  was  gone,  and  felt  it  still  the  more, 
from  the  tokens  of  care  for  their  interest  and  comfort  which  the 
communications  received  made  evident.  Old  Willy  moumed 
the  loss,  and  doubted  now  that  he  should  ever  live  to  see  his 
young  master  any  more  ! 

The  hay-time  was  scarcely  over  when  an  invitation  came  to 
Rose  fi'om  her  uncle  in  London  to  pay  him  a  visit.  Rose  was 
much  pleased  with  the  thought  of  going  to  London ;  but  her 
chief  joy  was  the  prospect  of  seeing  William.  Mr.  Smith's 
brother  in  London,  Mr.  Samson  Smith,  lived  in  a  countiy -house, 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  27l 

Bome  few  miles  out  of  the  great  city.  William  met  Rose  at  the 
inn  where  the  coach  stopped,  and  took  her  down  to  her  uncle's 
house.  There  seemed  to  Rose  no  end  of  streets  or  people,  but 
she  had  few  thoughts  for  them ;  her  joy  at  sight  of  her  brother 
swallowed  up  all  besides.  Her  uncle's  house  was  very  differ- 
ent from  her  home ;  there  was  a  carpet  all  over  the  floor, 
paintings  round  the  room,  a  pier-glass  over  the  mantle-piece, 
and  more  than  one  sofa  !  Her  aunt  and  cousins  were  very  kind 
to  her  as  well  as  her  uncle ;  but  Rose  felt  strange,  and  when 
William  went  away  in  the  evening  she  could  hardly  keep  from 
crying.  But  in  a  few  days  she  was  more  at  home ;  and  her 
aunt  took  Rose  into  London  with  her  cousins,  and  showed  her 
some  of  the  sights  that  make  the  great  city  so  famous — Rose 
saw  the  wild  beasts ;  she  saw  also  the  Tower,  where,  in  days 
gone  by,  so  many  a  noble  prisoner  heard  the  key  turn  that  sepa- 
rated between  him  and  all  he  loved  on  earth  forever.  Rose  saw 
the  river  with  its  forest  of  masts ;  she  saw  the  street  again,  and 
wondered  how  they  could  be  all  so  full  of  people  at  once  ;  but 
she  saw  nothing  like  her  own  sweet  woods  and  fields,  no  rippling 
stream,  no  shading  trees,  no  free  bird  warbling  praise  ;  and  she 
began  to  think  about  the  time  when  she  would  go  home  again 
She  saw  but  little  of  William ;  he  could  seldom  get  down,  ex 
cept  on  Sundays,  and  then  she  could  not  talk  much  to  him, 
before  her  aunt  and  cousins. 

Had  the  ministering  child  then  nothing  to  do  for  others  away 
from  her  home  ?  0  yes  !  we  have  always  something  to  do  for 
others,  and  something  to  learn,  wherever  we  may  be.  Rose 
tried  to  be  useful  to  her  aunt  and  cousins,  but  they  were  all  very 
happy,  and  did  not  seem  really  to  want  her  ;  her  uncle  was  very 
kiad  to  her,  but  he  never  seemed  to  want  her  ;  the  servants,  too, 
were  attentive  to  her,  but  they  looked  well  and  satisfied.  Wil- 
liam could  seldom  come  ;  and  Rose  thought  of  her  own  villajjo 


272  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

far  away — she  knew  mat  tnere  were  many  who  wanted  her 
there  ;  some  of  the  poor  old  people  wanted  her,  she  knew  ;  and 
her  father  she  knew  must  miss  her  sadly,  and  little  Tim,  and 
her  mother  also — and  Rose  felt  she  would  rather  be  where  she 
was  really  wanted,  than  seeing  all  the  fine  sights  in  the  world. 
Was  there  no  one,  then,  who  wanted  Rose  where  she  was  gone 
to  stay  ?     You  will  hear. 

One  day,  in  her  aunt's  house,  Rose  heard  a  tale  of  sorrow. 
A  poor  man,  a  workman  in  a  brewery  near,  had  fallen  into  one 
of  the  great  beer-vats,  and  been  killed.  He  had  left  a  wife  and 
three  little  children,  to  live  on  Earth  without  him,  and  the  poor 
woman's  heart  was  almost  broken  with  her  sorrow.  A  kind  ladj 
went  round  to  collect  a  little  money,  that  a  mangle  or  some- 
thing might  be  bought  for  the  poor  widow  to  earn  her  bread, 
and  Rose's  aunt  gave  some  money  to  help.  The  next  day  Rose 
heard  the  servants  talking  about  this  same  poor  woman,  so  she 
asked  the  housemaid  about  her,  and  the  housemaid  said, 
"  While  they  are  collecting  this  money  the  poor  thing  is  almost 
dying  of  distress  and  want !"  "  But  don't  they  go  and  see  her, 
and  take  her  some  of  it  ?"  asked  Rose.  "  No,  they  are  keeping 
it  all  to  do  something  to  get  her  a  living  with  ;  and  she  is  so 
distracted  wdth  grief  no  one  likes  to  go  and  see  her  !"  Rose  said 
no  more  that  day,  but  she  thought  in  her  heart  that  the  love 
of  Jesus  could  comfort  any  sorrow,  and  that  if  no  one  else 
w^ould  go,  she  ought  to  try  and  comfort  the  poor  widow.  So 
she  asked  the  housemaid  where  the  poor  woman  lived ;  and 
the  next  time  she  was  out  alone,  she  had  to  pass  the  end  of  the 
little  path  that  led  up  to  her  cottage.  Rose  thought  it  might  be 
terrible  to  see  such  grief,  but  it  must  be  worse  to  bear  it  and 
have  no  comforter,  so  she  turned  up  the  narrow  pathway  that 
led  to  the  house  ;  she  thought  if  she  could  not  comfort  her  she 
could  give  her  some  money  sh  i  had,  that  would  buy  her  food 


^^'^'"oT". 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  273 

for  a  little  while  ;  so  she  went.  She  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
some  one  said  "  Come  in  !"  Rose  lifted  the  latch,  and  went  in. 
There  stood  the  poor  widow  looking  very  pale,  as  if  she  had 
cried  for  days  and  nights. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  for  you,"  said  Rose,  "  I  came  to  see  you !"  The 
poor  woman  sat  down,  and  wiped  away  her  tears  with  hei 
apron  ;  and  Rose  sat  by  her  and  talked  to  her  of  Jesus,  and  the 
poor  woman  listened  to  all  Rose  had  to  say,  and  took  what 
Rose  had  brought  for  her,  and  was  as  gentle  as  the  ministering 
child  herself.  Then  Rose  went  away,  and  she  saw  there  was 
no  need  to  be  afraid  of  sorrow  when  we  go  to  it  in  the  name 
of  Jesus.  It  was  the  poor  widow,  with  none  to  visit  her,  who 
wanted  Rose. 

William  had  to  go  some  distance  on  business  for  his  uncle  ; 
he  was  away  several  days,  and  when  he  returned,  the  time  had 
come  for  Rose  to  go  back  to  her  home.  William  came  down 
quite  early  in  the  morning  to  take  her  into  London  to  the 
coach ;  and  as  soon  as  he  was  alone  with  Rose  in  the  fly  he 
said,  "  Rose,  I  have  a  secret  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  promise  not 
to  tell  father,  or  mother,  or  any  one,  till  I  write  about  it  ?"  Rose 
promised  not  to  tell,  and  William  talked  low  and  earnestly  to 
her,  and  Rose  listened,  all  anxiety,  till  the  fly  stopped  at  the  inn. 
Then  William  put  Rose  into  the  coach,  and  as  he  leaned  on  the 
door  he  said, '"  Oh  !  I  would  give  all  I  have  earned,  to  be  going 
back  -with  you,  if  it  was  only  myself  I  had  to  think  of !"  And 
then  charging  Rose  once  more  to  keep  the  secret,  the  coach 
drove  off",  and  Rose  soon  lost  sight  of  William  at  the  turning  of 
the  street,  while  full  of  joy  she  looked  forward  to  her  home. 
It  was  a  long  day's  journey  ;  but  when  the  coach  stopped  at  the 
little  village  inn  nearest  to  her  home,  to  change  horses,  there 
^tood  her  father,  and  the  horse  in  the  gig,  waiting  for  her.  Very 
joyful  was  the  meeting  between  Rose  and  her  father.     "  And 


274  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

what  of  poor  Will  ?"  said  her  father,  when  Rose  was  seated  by 
his  side  in  the  gig,  and  they  had  started  for  home — "  what  of 
poor  Will  ?" 

"  Oh  !  he  wished  so  he  could  come  with  me  !"  repHed  Kose, 
"  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  him  !" 

"  Poor  boy !"  said  farmer  Smith,  "  I  doubt  we  must  have  him 
home  after  all ;  he  will  never  settle,  so  far  from  the  place." 

"  No,  father,  he  would  not  live  in  London  always,  for  any 
money  !  but  he  would  not  leave  it  now,  I  know,  for  he  says  he 
shall  stay  till  he  has  worked  out  a  way  for  the  young  ones — 
all  except  Tim,  he  says  he  never  could  part  with  "Tim,  and  he 
knows  that  if  he  can  only  get  back  in  time  enough  to  teach 
Tim  farming,  that  he  will  take  to  it  better  than  any  thing  else, 
and  I  am  sure  Tim  is  more  like  William  than  any  of  them  !" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  said  farmer  Smith,  "  but 
these  are  not  times  to  settle  boys  out  in  a  day,  and  I  am  sure  I 
would  not  be  the  father  to  keep  a  son  like  him  pining  away 
from  his  home,  seeking  after  what  may  never  be  found." 

"  0  father,  Will  does  not  pine  up  there !  Why,  he  is  grown 
into  such  a  man  as  you  would  never  believe — and  as  busy  as 
any  thing.  I  wish  you  could  see  him  ;  and  I  know  a  secret, 
father,  only  I  am  not  to  tell  you  or  any  one,  so  you  won't  say 
any  thing,  will  you,  father  ?" 

Farmer  Smith  looked  down  anxiously  on  his  child's  bright 
face,  but  she  did  not  perceive  the  anxiety  of  the  look ;  she 
thought  if  the  subject-matter  of  a  secret  was  not  revealed,  the 
fact  of  its  existence  could  only  be  an  allowable  communication 
of  satisfying  interest ;  so  she  went  on  to  say,  "  It 's  only  good, 
father ;  and  if  it  comes  to  be,  then  you,  and  mother,  and  all 
will  know  it ;  but  I  promised  Will  not  to  tell !"  And  Rose 
thought  she  was  only  giving  hope  and  pleasure  by  her  intima- 
tion of  the  existence  of  a  secret — ^for  how  should  her  inexpe- 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  276 

rienced    childhood    understand   a   parent's    anxious    question- 
ing! 

Chestnut  in  the  gig  trotted  swiftly  along,  and  Rose  soon  gave 
a  shout  at  siarht  of  her  home — with  its  white  vine-covered  walls, 
its  sheltering  barns  and  stacks ;  and  then  the  yard-boy  driving 
Fillpail,  and  Cowslip,  and  Rosebud,  and  all  their  companions 
lack  from  the  milking  to  their  pasture  in  the  valley.  And 
then  her  brothers  caught  sight  of  the  gig,  and  ran  out  with 
their  welcome,  and  little  Tim  came  trotting  after  them  ;  and  at 
the  door  stood  her  mother,  in  her  afternoon  gown  of  red-pat- 
terned print, 'and  Rose  thought  how  nice  she  looked  ;  and  how 
fresh' and  sweet  and  clean  all  seemed,  after  the  London  suburbs 
and  the  dingy  city  she  had  left. 

When  Rose  was  seated  down  after  tea,  her  eager  brother 
Joe  and  the  little  sprightly  Ted,  began  their  questioning,  and 
Rose  with  no  less  animation  replied.  At  last  Joe  said,  "  Well, 
I  suppose  WilHam  begins  to  find  out  that  there  is  something 
better  to  be  done,  than  walking  backward  and  forward  over 
a  field  after  a  plough  all  the  days  of  one's  life  !" 

"  0,  no !"  exclaimed  Rose,  indignantly,  "  he  says  there  is 
nothing  he  counts  on  more  than  the  day  when  he  shall  lace  on 
his  plough-boots  again  on  father's  farm  !" 

"  Poor  boy !  poor  boy !"  said  farmer  Smith.  "  I  am  sure 
there  is  nothing  I  count  on  like  ha\ing  him  back  again  for 
good !" 

"  Why  then  did  you  ever  let  him  go  ?'*  asked  Mrs.  Smith. 
"  You  know  it  was  all  your  doing.  If  I  had  had  my  way,  he 
never  should  have  set  his  foot  in  London ;  by  what  I  hear 
they  have  people  enough,  and  too  many  up  there  as  it  is,  and 
why  we  should  be  sending  our  best  oflf  to  them — I  never  did, 
and  I  never  shall  see  the  reason  of !" 

"  Well,  wife,"  said  Mr.  Smith  sorrowfully  "  it  seemed  as  if  it 


276  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

might  be  for  the  best  in  the  end  ;  but  I  am  sure  I  don't  know, 
and  if  we  have  not  One  above  to  order  for  us,  I  don't  know 
who  is  to  tell  what  is  for  the  best !  It 's  certain  I  thought  1 
should  get  over  the  loss  of  him  better  than  I  have." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  thought  about  how  you  would  get  over 
it  at  all,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith,  "  it  never  was  your  way ;  when 
you  took  a  thing  up  you  were  for  doing  it — and  then  let  the 
feeling  come  after  as  it  might.  I  could  have  told  you  that  you 
never  would  get  over  the  loss  of  him,  only  you  would  not  have 
minded  it  if  I  had!" 

Mr.  Smith  made  no  further  remark  during  tea,  and  as  soon 
as  it  was  over  he  took  his  hat  and  went  out  into  his  farm,  to 
relieve  his  burdened  spirit  with  the  freshness  of  the  evening 
air.  And  while  the  boys  made  haste  to  help  their  mother 
clear  the  tea-table,  Rose  slipped  away  after  her  father,  and 
with  her  hand  in  his  soon  dispersed  the  gloom  that  had 
gathered  on  his  face. 

"  I  wish  enough,"  said  Joe  that  evening  to  Rose,  "  that  I  had 
not  said  any  thing  about  William  at  tea,  mother  always  takes 
it  up  so,  and  then  it  vexes  father !  I  only  know,  I  wish  I  could 
go  to  London  too,  for  it  is  as  dull  as  dullness  always  to  be 
walking  over  the  same  fields,  and  see  no  one  but  the  same  teb 
heavy  men  all  the  days  of  one's  life.  I  am  sure  I  can't  think 
how  father  can  stand  it,  only  I  suppose  he  likes  it.  Did  Wil- 
liam say  any  thing  about  me  ?" 

Rose  hesitated  a  little ;  Joe's  quick  eye  turned  instantly  at 
her  silence,  and  fixed  upon  her.  "  He  said,"  rephed  Rose,  "  that 
he  was  sure  you  would  not  like  uncle's  shop  any  better  than 
farming." 

"  No,  so  I  told  him,"  replied  Joe.  "  I  don't  see  any  more 
spirit  in  laying  up  and  taking  down  bales  of  goods,  and  cutting 
yards  of   stuffs,  than  in  putting   in  turnips   and   then  taking 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  277 

tlieiD  out  again,  and  cutting  them  up  for  the  sheep — all  ovei 
and  over  year  after  year !  what  I  should  like,  would  be  a  mer- 
chant's office,  wnere  some  day  I  might  travel,  and  not  have 
nothing  but  what  grows  at  one's  door  to  do  with  all  the  daya 
of  one's  life  !     Did  Will  say  any  thing  about  that  ?" 

"  He  said,"  replied  Rose,  "  that  he  would  never  give  up  trying 
after  it,  for  he  did  not  beheve  that,  so  much  as  you  had  read 
and  thought  about  it,  yon  would  ever  settle  to  any  thing  else." 

"  What  a  good  fellow  he  is !"  said  Joe,  "  he  always  did  seem 
to  care  as  much  about  what  one  felt  as  one  did  one's  self — let  it 
be  the  least  thing  in  the  world  even !  If  ever  he  makes  a 
merchant  of  me  he  shall  see  what  a  memory  I  have  for  things 
I  have  heard  him  say,  and  what  I  will  get  hold  of  and  do  to 
please  him !  I  wish  I  was  off,  for  there  's  no  getting  on  here, 
all  one  tries  to  do  seems  to  go  for  nothing,  as  to  making  any 
real  difference.  Juat  think  what  it  would  be  to  work  one's 
way  up  there  and  buy  this  farm  for  father,  instead  of  every 
now  and  then  hearing  it  is  likely  to  be  sold  over  his  head ;  or 
pay  the  rent  for  him  ;  or  any  thing  to  keep  off  that  harass  that's 
always  upon  him ;  but  somehow  there  seems  no  getting  on, 
and  no  spirit  in  any  thing  here  !" 

"  O,  Joe,  the  spirit  is  not  in  things,  the  spirit  is  in  us  1  I 
have  heard  William  say  that  you  may  put  spirit  into  any  thing ! 
And  he  thinks  there  's  nothing  like  farming  for  the  pleasure  of 
it." 

"  Well,  I  am  sure  father  says  I  do  work  well,  but  William 
eaid  it  was  hard  to  settle  to  work  you  can  not  get  a  liking  for." 

"  So  I  dare  say  it  is,"  replied  Rose  ;  "  but  only  you  try  and  be 
a  comfort  to  father,  and  see  if  William  does  not  soon  find  you 
something  up  in  London !" 

Joe  took  the  assurance  of  sympathy  and  comfort,  and  went 
the  nexf  morning,  with  fresh  spirit  to  his  work. 


278  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Rose  was  often  seen  looking  out  from  door  or  window  about 
the  hour  of  ten,  at  which  time  the  postman  generally  arrived, 
and  when  she  saw  him  climbing  the  gTeen  ascent  to  her  home, 
Bhe  would  run  out  to  meet  him  and  receive  his  store,  but  she 
still  always  returned  with  slower  step — no  letter  from  William 
was  there  !  At  length  one  baking  morning,  when  Rose  was 
busy  in  the  back-kitchen  making  the  harvest-cakes,  farmer  Smith 
called  Mrs.  Smith  and  Rose  into  the  parlor,  where  he  stood 
wath  an  open  letter  in  his  hand  !  The  heart  of  Rose  beat  quick 
for  she  guessed  that  the  secret  had  come  at  last !  Farmei 
Smith  shut  the  parlor  door,  saying,  "Here  is  a  letter  from 
Will,  and  no  time  to  be  lost  in  attending  to  it !"  so  saying,  he 
read  as  follows  • 

"Dear  Father, — 

"  I  hope  I  have  gathered  my  first  sheaf,  after  pretty  near 
a  two  years'  waiting  for  it ;  but  I  have  often  and  often  thought 
how  you  used  to  say,  when  I  wanted  to  be  hasty  in  housing  the 
crops,  '  Waiting  time  is  often  the  time  that  pays  best  in  the 
end !'  Well,  father,  I  told  Rose  a  bit  of  a  secret,  but  she  pro- 
mised to  keep  it,  so  I  may  as  well  tell  you  and  mother  from 
the  beginning.  You  know  how  Joe  has  always  been  bent  on 
a  merchant's  office  ?  I  w^as  so  certain  nothing  else  would  con- 
tent him  that  I  always  kept  that  in  my  eye,  but  I  never  got  so 
much  as  the  least  prospect,  or  chance  of  trying  for  him.  Well, 
a  week  before  Rose  went  home,  I  had  to  go  a  journey  on  busi- 
ness for  my  uncle ;  there  was  an  elderly  gentleman  seated  by 
me  outside  the  coach,  and  we  had  not  gone  far  when  a  terrible 
thunder-shower  came  on.  I  had  an  umbrella,  for  I  had  seen  a 
threatening  of  it;  the  old  gentleman  had  none,  and  he  was 
seated  at  the  end  just  where  the  storm  beat,  so  I  said,  '  If  you 
will  please  to  change  places,  sir,  I  could  shelter  you  better  in 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  279 

the  middle  here.'  At  that  he  looked  up  and  said,  *  I  am  sure 
you  are  very  good  to  say  so,  but  I  have  no  right  to  expect . 
shelter  from  you,  and  an  old  man  ought  to  be  better  provided 
against  a  storm  than  a  young  one,  don't  you  consider  so  V 
*  Well,  sir,'  I  said,  '  I  don't  know  but  what  the  young  have 
quite  as  much  reason  to  look  out  as  the  old  !'  By  this  the  old 
gentleman  had  changed  his  place,  but  he  soon  began  to  call 
out  that  I  was  getting  his  share  of  the  storm  !  '  I  am  no  way 
afraid  of  that,  sir,'  said  I,  '  I  have  been  used  to  stand  a  shower 
all  my  days.'  *  How  is  that  ?'  he  asked.  '  Well,  sir,  I  was 
brought  up  to  the  fanning,  and  you  can't  be  a  farmer  and 
afraid  of  a  shower !  but  a  soaking  is  dangerous  sometimes, 
when  you  are  not  used  to  it.'  Then  the  old  gentleman  put  nc 
end  of  questions  to  me,  and  I  found  he  knew  pretty  well  about 
farming  himself ;  he  told  me  he  was  bom  and  brought  up  on 
a  farm,  and  certainly  he  pleased  me  better  than  any  one  I  had 
met  all  the  time  I  have  been  in  London — ^near  enough  now  up- 
on two  years.  In  all  that  time  uncle  Sampson  has  never  asked 
me  half  so  many  questions  about  you,  and  the  farm,  and  the 
boys,  as  that  old  gentleman  did  that  day,  and  all  as  if  he  cared 
to  know  !  it  did  me  more  good  than  any  talk  I  had  had  since 
I  left  home.  The  old  gentleman  gave  me  his  card  at  the  end 
of  the  journey,  and  told  me  to  call  on  him  as  soon  as  I  re- 
turned to  London,  for  he  was  going  to  return  the  next  day.  I 
found  by  his  card  that  he  lived  not  very  far  from  my  uncle's, 
and  when  I  showed  it  to  him,  he  told  me  that  he  knew  him 
well  by  name,  and  that  he  was  a  man  of  excellent  standing,  a 
merchant  in  London.  0,  how  I  thought  of  Joe — and  what  if 
after  all  this  should  be  the  making  of  him  !  T  went  down  the 
very  first  evening  to  see  him  ;  he  seemed  to  be  living  alone  by 
what  I  could  make  out,  m  a  beautiful  house,  and  certainly  he 
was  one  of  the  pleasantest  persons  I  ever  spoke  to  ;  he  remem- 


280  MINISTERING     OHILDREN. 

bered  every  word  I  had  told  him,  and  there  I  sat,  talking  to 
him,  just  as  if  I  had  been  at  home.  Well,  it  so  happened  that 
Joe  being  so  much  on  my  mind,  I  had  told  all  about  him  out' 
side  the  coach  before  ever  I  knew  what  the  old  gentleman  was, 
and  how  glad  I  was  to  think  I  had,  for  I  should  not  have  liked 
to  speak  about  it  then,  I  could  not  have  done  it  half  so  well. 
The  old  gentleman  never  said  a  word  of  what  I  was  so  full  of 
hope  about,  and  when  I  went  away  I  thought  all  was  over,  for 
he  only  said  he  should  hope  to  see  me  again  some  day.  Well, 
two  days  ago  what  should  come  but  a  note  from  him  to  invite 
me  to  dine  with  him.  And  then  he  told  me  that  he  had  called 
on  my  uncle,  and  satisfied  himself  as  far  as  he  could,  that 
he  was  not  venturing  too  much,  and  that  he  now  offered  me  a 
situation  in  his  office  for  my  younger  brother,  provided  he 
proved  capable  on  trial.  'But,'  he  said,  'rpy  premium  is 
a  hundred  pounds ;  I  require  two  hundred  with  the  sons  of 
gentlemen,  and  I  have  never  taken  any  with  less ;  do  you 
think  your  father  can  provide  that  sum?'  Well,  I  knew, 
let  it  be  where  it  would  in  a  merchant's  office,  there  must  be  a 
premium,  and  I  would  not  for  any  thing  have  put  a  hinderance 
in  the  way,  so  I  said,  I  hoped  that  might  not  be  found  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  so  excellent  an  offer.  Then  the  old  gentleman 
seemed  satisfied  ;  and  I  should  have  been  sorry  not  to  give  Joe 
as  good  a  start  as  we  could,  and  pay  him  regularly  in  ;  and  as 
I  dare  say  the  old  gentleman  knows  my  uncle  is  rich,  it  might 
have  looked  encroaching  on  the  kindness  of  his  offer,  if  I  had 
made  any  difficulty.  So  now  at  last  the  thing  is  settled.  But 
for  the  money — take  my  advice,  father,  and  do  not  worry 
to  think  it  over  yourself,  for  I  have  thought  it  all  over  and  over 
again,  and  there  is  but  one  way — and  that  way  will  soon  do  it. 
First,  then,  I  have  thirty  pounds  all  r*eady  at  once,  saved  out 
of  these  two  years :  then,  to  meet  the  rest  there  is  but  one 


MIKISTERING     CHILDREN.  281 

thing  to  be  done,  Black  Beauty  must  be  sold ;  don't  keep  vex- 
ing about  it ;  but  let  it  be  done,  and  you  will  never  repent  it, 
I  say  the  more  because  I  know  you  will  think  most  about  mo 
in  selling  him,  but  I  have  made  up  my  mind,  and  it  would 
hml  me  a  great  deal  more,  to  have  any  difficulty  in  Joe's  way 
with  such  an  offer  as  this.  Tell  mother  not  to  vex  about  the 
horse,  I  can  rear  her  another  such,  some  day,  when  I  am  your 
farming-man  again ;  he  ought  to  fetch  seventy  pounds  to  say 
the  least,  but  if  you  can  not  get  that  at  hands  likely  to  do  well 
by  him,  then  you  can  make  up  the  rest  without  much  difficulty, 
by  selling  off  what  remains  of  last  year's  wheat.  Let  me 
decide  for  you,  father,  as  I  think  I  best  can  in  this  case,  because 
I  know  the  value  of  the  offer.  You  must  have  Joe  and  the 
money  ready  in  a  fortnight ;  and  then  tell  mother  when  I  have 
seen  Joe  settled,  I  will  come  home  for  a  holiday.  My  love  to 
all,  and  good  wishes  to  Joe. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"  William  Smith. 
"  P.  S. — At  first  I  thought  I  would  make  an  effort  and  ask  my 
uncle  to  lend  me  the  seventy  pounds,  but  then  I  remembered 
what  you  have  so  often  said  to  me — '  Bear  any  thing  rather 
than  borrow,  Will !'  So  I  did  not  ask  my  uncle,  and  I  dare 
say  he  supposes  we  can  easily  raise  the  money,  for  he  never 
inquires  much  as  to  how  farming  stands.^ 

"  0,  father,"  exclaimed  Rose,  "  that 's  the  secret !  May  I  run 
and  tell  Joe  ?"  / 

"  And  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Smith  of  hei 
husband. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we"  can't  do  better  than  take  William's  ad- 
vice ;  these  are  no  times  to  bring  up  five  boys  on  one  smaU 
farm,  and  Joe  has  no  mind  to  the  work.'^ 


282  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  I,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  always  found  I  must  put  my  mind  in 
my  work,  and  then  my  work  came  to  my-  mind,  and  I  have 
trained  Rose  to  the  same  ;  "but,  as  I  always  said,  you  must  rule 
the  boys  ;  only  don't  let  me  see  the  horse  led  away — that  is  all 
I  have  to  say !"  and  Mrs.  Smith  returned  to  the  back-kitchen. 
Rose  stayed  by  her  father's  side  ;  what  would  he  have  done  but 
for  his  little  comforter  !  "  Never  mind,  father,  never  mind,"  she 
said.  "  It 's  sure  to  be  right  if  Will  says  so ;  you  know  it 
always  is !" 

"  Then  you  think  it  had  better  be  as  WilHam  says  ?"  asked 
the  father  of  his  little  daughter. 

"  O  yes,  father ;  Joe  is  bent  on.  London,  and  William  must 
know  better  up  there — among  so  many  people,  than  we  do 
down  here ;  only  mother  never  likes  things  different,  but  she 
will  be  glad  some  day  !     May  I  go  and  tell  Joe  now  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  .you  like.  Your  mother's  taking  things  contrary, 
makes  them  a  heavy  burden.  I  am  sure  I  am  sorry  enough 
foi  the  poor  beast ;  but  it 's  better  than  borrowing  !"  and  farmer 
Smith  took  his. hat;  and  Rose  ran  to  look  for  Joe.  She  found 
him  busy  in  the  fields  among  the  men;  so  calling  him  on 
one  side,  she  told  him  all,  except  about  the  horse,  by  which 
it  was  to  be  obtained.  Joe  rushed  to  the  house,  wild  with  joy. 
The  first  person  he  found  was  his  mother. 

"  0  mother !  I  am  to  be  a  merchant,  after  all !  William  has 
found  me  a  place  in  London  !" 

"  Well,  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Mrs.  Smith. 

"  No,  mother,  I  don't  want  it  helped ;  it 's  the  thing  of  all 
others  I  have  most  wished  for  !" 

"And  what  is  the  use  of  never  being  satisfied  in  one  place, 
till  you  are  in  another,  I  should  like  to  know  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Smith.  "  There  's  William  always  sighing  after  his  home,  and 
T  dare  say  you  will  like  London  no  better !" 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  288 

"  Why,  mother,  Will  never  did  like  it ;  lie  always  said  it  was 
only  for  us  he  went  away ;  but  it 's  the  very  thing  I  have  al- 
ways longed  for,  so  I  ."im  sure  to  like  it !" 

"  Well,  I  only  hope  it  may  be  so  !"  replied  Mrs.  Smith  ;  and 
Joe  went  off  to  look  for  warmer  sympathy  in  his  father.  He 
did  not  look  in  vain ;  but  after  some  conversation,  farmer  Smith 
said,  "  I  am  sorry  for  the  horse  ;  but  it  can  not  be  helped  !" 

"What  horse,  father?" 

"  Did  not  Rose  tell  you  ?  We  must  sell  Black  Beauty,  to 
pay  the  premium." 

"  Sell  Black  Beauty,  father  !  no,  that  you  must  not ;  William 
would  never  bear  the  sight  of  me,  if  his  horse  had  been  sold  to 
get  me  up  there :  I  would  sooner  not  go  !"  And  the  lad's  voice 
faltered  with  struggling  feelings. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  William  himself  who  says  so,"  replied  his  father. 

"  Does  William  say  so  ?"  asked  Joe.  "  Well,  I  never  thought 
he  could  have  given  up  so  much  for  me  !" 

Now  it  happened  that  the  old  clergyman  had  long  taken  a 
great  fancy  to  Black  Beauty,  as  a  fine  horse  for  his  hooded  car- 
riage ;  and  he  had  more  thaji  once  asked  farmer  Smith  to  let  him 
know  if  ever  he  thought  of  parting  with  it ;  so,  acting  on  his  son 
William's  advice,  farmer  Smith  lost  no  time  in  caUing  on  the 
Rector.  The  old  clergyman  seemed  pleased  with  a  prospect  of 
possessing  the  horse,  but  said  that  he  had  fixed  the  price  that  he 
would  give,  namely  fifty  pounds,  beyond  which  he  would  not 
go.  Farmer  Smith  stated  that  the  horse  was  worth  more ; 
that  he  felt  no  doubt  a  dealer  would  give  him  more ;  that  it 
was  only  a  sudden  necessity  he  could  not  meet,  compelled  him 
to  sell  the  horse,  but  that  he  greatly  desired  to  secure  a  good 
master  for  him.  Now  the  old  clergyman  was  rich,  and  had  no 
children,  but  he  made  no  inquiry  as  to  why  the  horse  had  to  be 
Bold  ;  he  only  said,  "  T  have  stated  the  price  I  will  give,  you  must 


284  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

take  it  or  not,  as  seems  best  to  you."  Farmer  Smith  sat  a  fei» 
minutes  in  harassed  thought;  he  wished  his  little  Rose  had 
been  at  his  side,  to  say  one  way  or  the  otl  >er  ;  at  last,  feeling  for 
the  creature  outweighed  the  hope  of  a  larger  price,  and  he  re- 
plied, "  Well,  sir,  I  would  sooner  let  him  go  for  less  to  a  good 
master,  than  strain  a  point  and  get  a  bad  one.  The  horse  is 
worth  full  seventy  pounds,  but  as  I  am  driven  to  it  by  necessity, 
I  will  take  the  fifty  for  him,  if  you  please,  sir." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  old  clergyman  ;  I  gave  fifty  pounds  for 
the  best  horse  I  ever  had,  and  I  never  mean  to  give  more,  or  I 
may  probably  get  a  worse."  So  farmer  Smith  took  the  offer, 
and  the  horse  was  to  be  fetched  away  the  next  day  ! 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  Rector's  coachman  came 
for  the  horse.  Ted  saw  him  coming  and  gave  the  alarm,  then 
ran  off"  to  the  stable  to  give  Black  Beauty  his  last  supper. 

Joe  followed  slowly,  and  Rose  with  him,  trying  to  cheer  him  ; 
but  he  took  his  stand,  pale  and  silent,  within  the  stable,  half 
concealed  from  view.  Samson  stood  with  great  composure  at 
the  farm-yard  gate,  watching  the  approach  of  the  man  ;  while 
little  Tim,  hearing  from  Molly  what. was  about  to  happen,  came 
running  and  crying  as  he  ran,  and  hsping  out  his  sobs,  "  No,  no, 
naughty  man.  Black  Booty  not  go  ;  Will  said,  '  Tim,  take  care 
of  Black  Booty  !'  "  Ted  had  filled  a  measure  to  the  brim,  and 
the  high  and  gentle  creature  stooped  his  head  to  feed  ;  but  when 
little  Tim  came  sobbing  in,  the  creature  turned  from  its  food, 
looked  hard  at  the  child,  and  then  stooped  down  its  face  to  him, 
as  if  to  caress  and  soothe. 

Then  fanner  Smith  and  the  coachman  entered.  Farmer 
Smith  looked  on  the  group  one  moment  in  silent  feeling  almost 
as  strong  as  his  children's,  then  stroking  down  his  favorite's  silky 
mane,  he  said,  "  There 's  the  horse  ;  I  give  him  to  you  in  good 
condition,  and  a  better  horse  you  can  not  find." 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  286 

**  I  am  sorry  for  you  sir,"  said  tlie  coacliman ;  and  farmer 
Smith  left  the  stable,  unable  to  stay  and  witness  the  scene. 

"  You  will  let  him  get  his  supper  first  ?"  said  Ted,  look- 
ing up,  and  holding  the  measure  afi'esh  to  Black  Beauty's 
head. 

"  Go,  naughty  man,  go  quite  away,"  said  little  Tim,  "  Will 
shall  be  very  angry  with  you  !"  And  the  horse  turned  from  its 
food  again  to  the  child. 

"  Come  now,  Tim,"  said  Ted,  "  you  won't  let  him  have  a  bit 
of  supper !"  And  Tim  suffered  Rose  to  compose  and  comfort 
him  while  Black  Beauty  eat  his  food,  but  the  moment  it  was 
done  and  the  halter  was  in  the  coachman's  hand,  his  grief 
broke  forth  again,  while  Ted,  and  .  Rose,  and  Joe,  at  that  sight, 
no  longer  kept  from  tears.  The  man  tried  to  make  short  work 
of  it,  and  led  the  horse  at  once  away,  but  the  creature  threw 
up  his  head,  his  eyes  that  had  looked  so  mildly  on  the  child 
grew  fierce  and  snorting,  he  seemed  to  bid  the  stranger  defi- 
ance in  his  attempt  to  secure  and  lead  him  away.  Then  Joe 
looked  up  in  blank  distress,  and  said,  "  It 's  of  no  iJse,  he  won't 
go  for  you,  a  stranger  never  led  him,  give  him  to  me,  it 's  fit  I 
should  have  to  lead  him  away,  for  it's  all  for  me  he  has  to  go  !" 
So  Joe  took  the  halter,  the  creature  hung  down  his  head  and 
followed,  and  the  children  followed  also — little  Tim  stampiDg 
with  impotent  distress.  The  heavy  laden  wagon  coming  in  at 
the  stack-yard  gat«  stood  still,  and  the  men  looked  round  to 
watch  ;  and  the  laborers,  winding  up  the  hill  with  their  rakea 
upon  their  shoulders,  turned  to  see  the  faithful  creature  go,  and 
Molly  and  the  yard-boy  stood  in  view,  and  Mrs.  Smith  within 
the  house  kept  up  a  more  than  usual  stir,  and  Mr.  Smith — ^no 
one  knew  where  he  was !  Rose  soon  stopped  with  little  Tim  ; 
but  Ted  ran  on  by  the  side  of  Joe,  who  led  the  horse  to  his  new 
stable,  then  the  boys  hung  their  arms  round  his  neck  and  left 


286  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

him  to  his  new  abode  :  and  long  Black  Beauty  neighed  in  vain 
for  the  children's  hands  to  feed  him ! 

"  Never  mind,  my  boy,"  said  farmer  Smith,  as  Joe  turned  away 
from  his  supper,  "  you  won't  trifle  with  a  situation  that  has  cost 
us  all  so  much  !" 

"  What  in  the  world  is  this  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Smith,  as  she  packed 
her  son  Joe's  box  for  London. 

"  0,  never  mind,  mother,  just  tuck  it  in  any  where  !" 

"  But  what  in  the  world  is  it  for  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Smith. 

"  Well,  mother,  it's  only  just  the  old  bit  of  rope  with  which  I 
led  Black  Beauty  away ;  he  would  not  let  the  Rector's  man 
halter  him  or  lead  him  out  of  the  stable." 

"  And  what  can  be  the  use  of  taking  that  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Smith. 

"  0,  never  mind,  mother,  only  for  fear  that  I  should  ever  for- 
get that  day !" 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  it 's  an  odd  fancy — to 
hold  feeling  by  a  bit  of  old  rope  !  but  so  it  must  be  if  you 
mil."  * 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Smith  was  really  more  capable  of  understand- 
mg  Joe's  feelings  than  she  showed  signs  of  being ;  but  so  it 
passed  off,  and  Black  Beauty's  old  piece  of  rope  was  tucked  in 
the  corner  of  his  box.  And  Joe  went  to  London,  and  the  mer- 
chant was  pleased  with  the  lad,  and  the  money  was  paid,  and 
William  took  Joe  to  lodge  with  him,  and  when  he  had  seen  him 
comfortably  settled,  William  went  down  to  spend  a  fortnight  in 
his  home — to  the  comfort  of  all,  and  not  least  of  }^^tlet  Tim. 
And  Black  Beauty  drew  the  minister's  carriage. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

•"Warm'd  underneath  the  Comforter's  safe  wing, 
They  spread  th'  endearing  warmth  around." 

"Putting  on  the  breastplate  of  faith  and  love."— 1  Thess.  v.  8. 

\TrHILE  these  events  had  been  passing  in  the  village,  little  Jane 
^  "  had  followed  on  her  childhood's  path  within  the  town  :  and 
the  energy  of  growing  thought,  and  the  courage  of  deepening 
feeling,  strengthened  within  her  heart.  Her  sympathy  for  the 
poor  gi-ew  with  her  growth — a  sympathy  inherited  by  birth  from 
her  parents,  and  constantly  nourished  by  the  atmosphere  of  he* 
home ;  a  respectful  sympathy,  a  loving  feeling  of  relationship 
a  sense  of  some  invisible  tie  existing  between  her  and  the  poor 
which  did  not  exist  between  her  and  the'  rich — even  that  most 
blessed  bond,  the  power  to  aid  and  comfort ! 

There  was  a  road  which  led  out  of  the  town,  on  the  side 
nearest  to  Mr.  Mansfield's  house,  the  road  led  up  a  long  hill, 
and  then  crossed  a  wide  heath  ;  this  was  a  favorite  walk  with 
Jane  and  her  little  brothers,  and  here  they  used  to  run,  and  play 
with  the  snow,  in  the  winter  time,  to  which  we  have  now  come  ; 
— while  WiUiam  and  Joe  were  together  in  London,  little  Mercy 
and  her  uncle  Jem  tending  old  Willy,  Herbert  away  in  a  foreign 
land.  Rose  busy  in  her  home,  and  Black  Beauty  drawing  the 
minister's  carriage.  Thus  on  the  fresh-blowing  heath,  Jane  and 
her  little  brothers  grew  rosy  with  their  play.  There  were  scat- 
tered cottages  and  huts  upon  this  open  heath,  and  Jane  often 


288  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Stopped  in  her  play  and  looked  at  them,  or  passed  them  by  with 
slower  step — she  felt  that  the  poor  were  there  !  But  there  was 
one  hut  that  stood  separated  from  any  other,  a  mean  abode  it 
was,  and  with  no  look  of  comfort  round  it ;  there  was  a  pile  of 
turf  to  lengthen  out  the  smoldering  fire,  but  no  little  stack  of 
wood,  no  black  and  shining  coal,  no  cheerful  blaze  within.  No 
Herbert  came  and  went  that  way ;  no  faithful  Jem  lived  near  ; 
but  little  Jane's  eye  of  thoughtful  love — so  early  trained  to 
watch  where  any  want  might  rest — her  eye  of  thoughtful  love 
had  marked  the  mean  abode,  and  again  and  again  she  had  look- 
ed, wondering  who  might  live  there.  At  last  one  wintery  day, 
just  as  Jane  passed  by,  the  door  opened,  and  an  aged  woman 
came  out  with  a  ragged  cloth  in  her  hand  which  she  hung  on 
a  snowy  bramble  that  grew  beside  the  door ;  the  aged  woman 
wore  an  old  print  gown,  with  a  small  black  shawl  pinned  over 
her  shoulders,  and  an  old  black  bonnet  on  her  head,  her  head 
shook  with  the  palsy  of  age,  and  it  was  evident  at  first  sight 
that  she  was  old  and  poor — very  old,  and  very  poor. 

"  Look  nurse,"  said  Jane,  "  that  poor  old  woman  lives  there  1" 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  nurse. 

"  Do  you  think  mamma  knows  that  old  woman  ?"  asked  Jane. 

"  How  can  I  tell !"  replied  nurse  ;  "  you  don't  suppose  your 
mamma  knows  every  old  woman  for  miles  round  the  town  ?" 

Nurse  was  walking  at  a  quick  pace  with  the  little  boys,  and 
she  called  to  Jane,  who  was  lingering  with  her  eyes  still  on  the 
open  cottage-door,  to  come  on  ;  so  Jane  hastened  on.  As  they 
returned,  the  aged  woman  stood  outside  her  door  again,  putting 
out  a  few  more  ragged  things  to  dry  on  the  bushes  in  the  win- 
tery wind.  Jane  watched  her  as  she  passed,  but  said  no  more 
to  nurse.  As  soon  as  she  was  alone  with  her  mother  that  day, 
she  said,  "  Mamma,  what  do  you  think  !  I  saw  such  a  very 
old  woman  in  such  a  very  old  cottage,  she  looked  so  cold,  an<^ 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  289 

her  head  shook,  and  she  was  hanginp"  out  some  ragged 
things  to  dry,  and  I  saw  no  fire  inside  !  Do  you  know  her, 
mamma  ?" 

"  Where  did  you  see  her  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Mansfield. 
"  Out  on  the  heath,  mamma,  such  a  very  old  cottage — alone 
by  itself!     I  am  sure  she  is  very  poor,  and  she  must  be  very 
cold." 

"  I  don't  think  I  know  any  thing  of  her,"  replied  Mrs.  Mans- 
field ;  "  but  if  you  think  she  is  so  very  old  and  poor,  you  shall 
take  me  to  see  her,  and  then  we  shall  both  know  her." 

"  0,  mamma,  will  you  let  me  ?  shall  we  go  this  afternoon  ?" 
"  No,  you  could  not  walk  so  far  twice  in  one  day." 
"  O,  yes,  I  could  indeed,  mamma,  I  am  not  at  all  tired  !" 
"  No,  we  will  wait  till  to-morrow,  and  then  if  the  day  is  very 
fine,  I  will  promise,  if  possible,  to  go  with  you." 

"  Shall  you  do  any  thing  to  make  her  warm,  mamma  ?" 
"  Yes,  if  you  like  we  will  take  her  a  coal-ticket,  and  then  she 
will  be  able  to  have  some  coals." 

"  O,  mamma,  I  am  so  glad !  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for 
her  as  well !" 

"  We  will  observe  when  we  go,  what  she  seems  most  to  want, 
And  then  perhaps  you  can  make  it,  and  take  it  to  her  some  day 
in  your  walk  with  nurse." 

"Do  you  mean  I  may  take  it  in,  all  alone  by  myself, 
mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,  if  she  seems  a  kind  old  woman,  who  would  be  pleased 
to  have  a  little  visitor." 

"  Are  not  all  poor  people  kind,  then,  mamma  ?" 

"  No,  dear  Jane,  not  all ;  an  evil  heart  within  them  makes 

some  poor  people  unkind   and   wicked,  as  it  does  some  rich 

people.    And  then  the  poor  often  suffer  a  great  deal ;  and  when 

thev  havf»  not  the  fear  and  love  of  God  to  comfort  them,  suffer- 

13 


290  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

ing  often  makes  them  speak,  and  feel,  and  act  as  they  would  not 
if  they  knew  the  love  of  God." 

"  Can  not  they  be  taught  to  know  it  then,  mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,  Jane,  we  must  try  to  help  every  one  to  know  the  love 
of  God  through  Jesus  Christ ;  God's  love  can  change  the  hardest 
and  most  wicked  heart,  and  make  it  gentle  and  patient — even 
in  suffering.  So  when  we  find  any  one  unkind  to  us,  whether 
poor  or  rich,  we  must  try  and  show  them  what  the  love  of  God 
can  teach  and  enable  us  to  bear  and  to  do  ;  and  if  we  can  we 
must  tell  them  of  His  love,  that  they  may  seek  it  also." 

"Then  if  the  old  woman  is  unkind,  what  will  you  do, 
liiamma  1" 

"  I  do  not  think  she  will  be  :  but  if  she  should,  we  must  speak 
Jie  more  gently  and  kindly  to  her,  and  perhaps  she  will  soon 
£nd  that  we  want  to  be  a  help  and  comfort  to  her,  and  then  she 
will  be  glad  to  see  us  ;  and  our  love  may  lead  her,  perhaps,  to 
seek  the  love  of  God — and  that  will  make  her  happy  in  her  poor 
cottage  here,  and  then  it  will  take  her  to  Heaven." 

Jane  was  satisfied,  and  asked  no  more  ;  she  had  learned  an 
added  lesson  of  truth  ;  no  suspicion  had  been  taught  her ;  her 
liiother  had  only  reminded  her  of  the  fact — that  from  sin's  evil 
root  we  must  not  be  surprised  to  find  its  bitter  fruit ;  and 
she  had  bound  upon  her  child  "  the  breastplate  of  faith  and 
love,"  to  shield  her  from  the  painful  effects  of  a  surprise,  llie 
youngest  soldier  of  the  cross  needs  to  be  so  prepared  and 
guarded,  when  venturing  on  ground  untried  by  others  for  his 
sleps ;  and  care  is  needed — is  greatly  needed — lest  the  older 
mind  should  teach  by  infusing  suspicion  and  doubt,  instead  of 
giving  the  simple  knowledge  of  the  universal  fact  of  man's  evil 
heart,  and  carefully  binding  on  the  child's  young  spirit  that 
breastplate  of  faith  and  love  which  can  alone  guard  it  for  ita 
safe  conflict  with  the  world. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  291 

The  next  day  Jane  set  off  witli  her  mother  for  the  cottage  on 
the  heath.  It  was  true  she  walked  with  more  silent  question 
ings  in  her  heart — as  to  what  they  might  meet  in  the  old 
woman's  cottage — ^but  it  was  the  questioning  that  belongs  to 
Earth's  uncertainty  ;  and  whatever  might  be  found,  she  was  pre- 
pared to  meet  it  now,  without  being  driven  back  by  a  surprise. 
The  cottage  door  was  shut ;  on  Mrs.  Mansfield's  knocking,  the 
old  woman  opened  it,  and  Mrs.  Mansfield  said,  "  We  have  walked 
up  from  the  town  to  call  on  you  :  may  we  come  in  ?" 

"  It 's  no  place  to  come  into,"  said  the  aged  woman,  "  but  you 
can  if  you  like." 

So  Mrs.  Mansfield  went  in,  and  sat  down  on  a  broken  chair ; 
Jane  found  a  seat  on  the  bottom  of  the  bedstead,  and  the  aged 
woman  sat  down  again  by  her  small  table,  where  she  was  taking 
her  twelve  o'clock  dinner  of  a  little  tea  and  a  crust  of  bread. 

"  You  must  feel  the  cold  on  this  open  heath,"  said  Mrs.  Man* 
field. 

"  Yes,  it 's  enough  to  perish  an  old  woman  like  me ;  but  1 
could  never  make  up  the  high  rent  down  in  the  town,  so  I  am 
forced  to  bear  it  as  I  can." 

"  We  thought  that  you  might  like  a  coal-ticket ;  they  are  giv- 
ing some  in  the  town  ;  do  you  know  about  them  !" 

"  Oh  yes  !  I  know  about  them." 

"  Would  you  like  to  have  one  ?" 

"  Well,  I  can  have  it  if  you  like,  but  I  don't  suppose  I  can 
ever  get  the  coals  out  here ;  I  am  sure  I  can't  carry  them." 

"No,  you  could  not  carry  them  yourself;  but  I  see  some  other 
cottages  near ;  perhaps  you  have  a  neighbor  who  ccnld  ?" 

"  No,  there 's  no  one  who  neighbors  with  me  ;  I  have  no  one 
to  look  to  but  myself;  what  I  can  do  for  myself  I  do,  and  what 
I  can't  I  have  to  go  without." 

"  Could  you  not  manage  if  you  had  a  shilling  with  it  ?     Then 


292  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

you  could  pay  the  sixpence  that  is  necessary  with  the  ticket, 
and  give  something  to  a  boy  to  carry  them  for  you." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  could  do  that." 

"  Shall  I  write  your  name  on  the  ticket,  thcK  ?  I  have  a  pen 
and  ink  in  my  basket" 

"  You  can  if  you  please." 

So  Mrs.  Mansfield  wrote ;  then  turning  to  the  aged  woman, 
she  said,  "  You  feel  as  if  you  had  no  one  to  look  to  ;  but  there 
is  a  Friend  who  is  able  and  willing  to  help  and  comfort  you,  if 
you  ask  it  of  Him." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  there  is  a  God  above,"  said  the  old 
woman ;  "  I  know  that !" 

"  I  mean  that  the  God  above  sent  His  beloved  Son  to  die  for 
you,  that  you  might  find  pardon,  and  help,  and  hope  in  Him — 
even  in  Jesus  the  Son  of  God." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  it  may  be ;  but  those  who  have  no  learning, 
like  me,  can  not  come  at  the  understanding  of  it." 

"  Oh  yes  you  can,  by  God's  help.  It  is  to  the  poor,  above 
all  others,  that  the  good  news  is  sent.  It  is  all  wiitten  in  the 
Bible  for  you,  and  if  you  only  get  its  words  into  your  heart, 
they  are  sure  to  lead  you  to  Heaven." 

"  I  can't  do  that,  then,  for  I  can't  read  them ;  and  I  am  not 
fit  to  go  to  a  place  of  worship." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  are  quite  fit  for  that ;  there  are  many  who  have 
worshiped  God  in  worse  clothing  than  yours :  but  if  you  like, 
my  little  girl  shall  come  and  read  to  you  sometimes,  when  she 
walks  this  way  ?" 

"  Well,  I  am  for  the  most  part  busy." 

"  Never  mind ;  if  you  are  busy  she  can  run  on  with  her 
brothers ;  but  if  you  are  not  busy,  she  can  come  and  read  the 
words  of  the  Bible  to  you — those  blessed  words  that  are  writteo 
for  the  poor  1" 


MINISTEEING     CHILDREN.  293 

"  I  an)  sure  you  are  very  good !"  said  the  ola  woman, 
softened  at  last.     And  Mrs.  Mansfield  and  Jane  took  their  leave. 

"  She  was  not  really  unkind,  was  she  mamma  ?"  asked  Jane, 
anxious  to  clear  as  much  as  possible  any  censure  from  her  old 
tt^oman. 

"  No,  dear,  she  was  not  at  all  unkind,  only  very  poor  and  very 
miserable  ;  and  when  people  are  very  miserable,  they  often  don't 
feel  able  to  speak  pleasantly." 

"  No,  mamma ;  do  you  think  she  will  like  me  to  read  to 
her?" 

"  Yes,  I  feel  sure  she  will,  after  a  little  time.  I  think  she  will 
sooi  1  begin  to  love  you,  Jane  ;  and  then  perhaps  you  may  teach 
her  to  know  the  love  of  God  her  Saviour,  and  then  she  will  soon 
feel  very  different,  and  look  very  different." 

"  Shall  I  go  to-morrow,  mamma  ?" 

"  No,  I  dare  say  she  will  go  for  her  coals  to-morrow ;  you 
had  better  wait  a  day  or  two,  and  perhaps  by  that  time  she  will 
begin  to  look  out  for  your  promised  visit." 

"  I  saw  something  she  wanted,  mamma — did  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  poor  old  woman !  I  thought  she  wanted  almost  every 
hing !" 

"  But  I  mean  her  tea-pot,  mamma ;  did  you  see  it  was  tied 
together  with  a  string  ?" 

"No,  I  did  not  se^that. 

"  It  was,  indeed,  mamma !     How  much  would  a  tea-pot  cost  ?" 

"  You  could  get  a  small  black  tea-pot  for  tenpence." 

"  Ten  weeks,  then,  mamma,  it  would  take  me  before  I  could 
buy  one !" 

"  Yes,  it  would  ;  but  you  need  not  wait  for  that,  because  I 
think  I  have  a  tea-pot  at  home  I  could  spare ;  it  is  a  pewtei 
tea-pot,  a  good  deal  bent,  but  it  has  no  holes  in  it." 

"  May  I  take  it,  then,  mamma,  when  X  go  2" 


294  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Yes,  and  if  you  like,  you  shall  make  her  a  warm  garment, 
and  take  lier  that  as  a  present  from  me."  So  Jane,  with  delight, 
gave  her  play-time  to  work,  till  in  three  days  the  garment  was 
ready ;  then,  with  the  tea-pot  packed  in  a  basket,  and  a  little  tea 
and  sugar  from  her  father  beside  it,  and  with  her  mother's  warm 
present  tied  up  in  a  parcel,  the  happy  child  set  forth  with  her 
brothers  and  her  nurse.  O,  how  she  longed  to  reach  the  cottage ! 
And  when  at  last  it  came  in  sight,  she  said,  "  Nurse,  may  I  run 
on  now  1"  and  then  swiftly  she  crossed  the  wintery  heath,  and 
knocked  at  the  old  woman's  door. 

"  0,  it 's  you  r'  said  the  old  woman  ;  "  I  have  looked  out  for 
you !" 

"Mamma  has  sent  you  this  !"  said  Jane,  unfolding  her  mother's 
present ;  "  will  it  not  keep  you  warm  ?  I  made  it  for  you  all 
myself,  except  the  fixing !" 

"  Why,  I  never  had  the  like  of  this  before  !"  said  the  old  wo- 
man, with  evident  surprise. 

"And  mamma  said  I  might  bring  you  this  tea-pot,"  said 
Jane  ;  "  and  there  is  some  tea  and  sugar  from  our  shop !" 

"  I  am  sure  you  are  very  good  to  me !"  said  the  old  woman, 
with  feeling  in  her  tone. 

"  Are  you  busy  to-day  ?"  asked  Jane. 

"  No,  I  am  not  busy,  I  have  nothing  to  be  busy  about." 

«  Shall  I  stay  a  little  while  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  if  you  can  content  yourself." 

"  O  yes,  I  like  to  stay  with  you,  you  must  be  so  dull  here  all 
alone  !  Do  you  like  me  to  read  to  you  ?  I  have  brought  my 
own  Bible." 

"  As  you  please,"  replied  the  old  woman. 

"  I  can  read  to  you  about  Heaven  in  the  Revelation,"  said 
Jane  ;  and  she  read  from  the  seventh  chapter  of  Revelation,  the 
ninth  verse  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  206 

**  It 's  very  fine,  I  dare  say,"  said  the  old  woman,  **  for  those 
who  can  get  hold  of  it,  but  I  have  no  understanding." 

"  Can  not  you  understand  it  V  asked  Jane,  with  disappoint- 
ment. 

"  No,  I  never  had  any  learning.'* 

Jane  looked  down  on  the  sacred  words,  and  pondered  what 
to  say. 

"  I  wish  you  could  understand  !"  at  last  said  Jane,  looking  up 
earnestly  at  the  old  woman's  face  ;  "  if  you  could  it  would  make 
you  happy.     Shall  I  read  them  once  over  again  1" 

"  As  you  please,"  replied  the  old  woman,  "  but  I  have  no 
understanding." 

Jane  read  a  few  verses  again,  then  stopped,  saying,  "  Do  you 
know  who  the  Lamb  means  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  the  old  woman. 

"  It  means  Jesus,  God's  Son,  because  he  died  for  us !"  said 
Jane.  Then  Jane  read  on  about  the  white  robes,  and  stopped 
again,  and  said,  "  Every  body  in  Heaven  wears  a  white  robe, 
because  Jesus  has  washed  them  all  white  in  His  blood  !  I  can 
teach  you  a  prayer  about  that — ^it  is  a  veiy  short  prayer  out  of 
the  Bible — "  Wash  me,  and  I  shall  be  whiter  than  snow."  Do 
Bay  it  after  me,  and  then  you  will  know  it !" 

The  old  woman  tried ;  at  last  she  seemed  able  to  remember 
it  a  little : — and  when  Jane  was  gone,  she  still  sat  on  her 
broken  chair,  saying  over  to  herself,  "Wash  me  whiter  than 
snow  !     Wash  me  whiter  than  snow !" 

It  was  simple  teaching,  and  simple  learning ;  but  we  must 
estimate  the  full  meaning  of  the  few  words  left  in  the  aged 
w^oman's  heart,  before  we  can  estimate  the  value  of  the  lesson 
given  and  received.  "  Wash  me  !"  there  lay  the  assertion  of 
her  need  of  cleansing — a  need  only  to  be  truly  learned  from  the 
entrance  of  that  Word  that  enlightenefh  the  eyes.     "  Whiter 


296  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

than  snow  ;*" — there  lay  the  assurance  that  there  was  a  power 
that  could  make  clean,  make  without  spot  the  heart  and  life, 
that  needed  washing,  unable  to  cleanse  itself.  When  the 
Word  of  God,  that  gives  at  once  the  knowledge  of  sin  and 
the  only  remedy,  is  thus  jBxed  within  the  heart,  the  nail  i& 
fastened  in  a  sure  place — though  the  Master  of  assemblies 
deign  to  work  by  the  infant  of  days  in  fixing  it  there. 

Jane's  pence  were  now  saved  up  by  her  eager,  joyful  hand 
of  love,  for  her  own  old  woman.  First  two  lilac  print  aprons 
were  bought  and  made,  with  a  white  one  for  Sundays.  Mrs. 
Mansfield  added  a  large  handkerchief  to  pin  outside  the 
gown  over  the  shoulders,  which  Jane  hemmed;  and  when 
these  were  about  to  be  taken,  Mrs.  Mansfield  said,  "  Suppose, 
if  I  can  find  a  piece  of  black  silk,  I  make  her  a  little  black 
bonnet  ?" 

Of  course  the  thought  of  this  was  delightful,  and  Jane 
kept  back  her  gifts  till  the  bonnet  was  ready.  The  neat- 
est old  woman's  bonnet  was  made,  the  silk  put  plain  on  a 
small  close  shape,  and  then  Mrs.  Mansfield  made  a  plain 
net  cap,  with  a  net  border,  while  Jane  watched  her  mother's 
needle  with  eager  interest.  The  bonnet  and  cap  were  put  in 
a  little  blue  bandbox ;  and  then  Mrs.  Mansfield  found  a  shawl 
of  her  o^vn  for  the  old  woman  ;  and  so,  richly  laden  and  over- 
flowing with  gladness,  Jane  set  out,  with  her  nurse  and  her 
brother  to  help,  and  the  little  ones  to  share  the  interest,  on  the 
way  to  her  old  woman's  cottage.  Tears  started  to  the  eyes  of 
the  poor  old  woman — ^tears  of  love  and  grateful  feeling ;  and 
Jane  saw  the  old  woman  at  church — ^in  her  white  apron,  and 
neck-handkerchief  and  shawl,  and  her  little  black  bonnet  and 
white  net  cap.  The  hand  of  love  had  clothed  her,  the  voice  of 
love  had  wanned  and  cheered  her ;  there  were  tones  that  make 
the  heart's  music  now  on  earth  for  her ;  and,  led  by  these,  she 


l-.  200. 


vi^^^"or\,c. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  297 

went  to  hear  of  the  love  that  these  bore  witness  to — the  love 
that  passeth  knowledge  ! 

Before  the  cold  of  winter  had  passed  away,  Jane  discovered 
that  her  own  old  woman  had  stiff  limbs  from  rheumatism  ;  she 
told  this,  as  she  told  every  thing,  to  her  mother ;  and  on  Mrs. 
Mansfield's  learning  from  Jane  that  the  old  woman's  floor  was 
often  damp,  and  she  without  any  covering  for  it,  Mrs.  Mansfield 
found  up  a  variety  of  pieces  of  carpet,  some  old  and  some  new, 
and  showed  Jane  how  to  join  them.  With  an  old  pair  of  gloves 
on  her  hands,  fine  twine,  and  a  short  carpet-needle,  Jane  sat  on 
a  low  stool  on  the  nursery  floor  and  made  her  patchwork  rugs. 
It  was  kept  a  great  secret,  the  old  woman  was  to  know  nothing 
about  it  till  it  was  done  ;  and  never  could  work  have  afforded  a 
child  more  pleasure.  She  was  to  take  the  many-colored  rug, 
when  finished,  and  lay  it  down  herself ;  it  would  fill  up  all  the 
space  between  the  bed  and  the  fire,  just  where  the  old  woman 
sat,  and  light  up  with  its  vaiiety  of  patterns  and  colors  the  old 
woman's  dreary  dwelling;  the  little  window  had  long  been 
cleaned  by  the  ^Id  woman's  own  thought,  to  let  in  more  light 
for  Jane  to  n  ad,  and  Jane  had  secret  thoughts  of  asking  her 
mother  if  she  might  not  make  a  new  curtiiin  for  it ;  but  the 
carpet- work  fully  engaged  her  spare  time  for  the  present;  and 
sometimes  her  mother,  and  sometimes  her  nurse,  gave  her  advice 
as  to  how  best  to  arrange  her  vanous-shaped  pieces.  One  day, 
while  Jane  was  intent  on  her  work  in  the  middle  of  tJie  nursery 
floor,  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor  and  friend  of  her  mother's 
knocked  at  the  nursery-door,  and  on  nurse  saying,  "  Come  in," 
she  opened  the  door,  saying,  by  way  of  excuse  for  her  appear 
ance  there,  "  I  found  your  mamma  was  out,  and  I  got  the  serv 
ant  just  to  let  me  run  up,  because  I  have  no  time  to  stay,  and 
I  want  you  to  come  to  drink  tea  with  us  on  Friday.  I  am 
to  have  a  party.     Mamma  has  bought  me  a  iiew  best  frock  of 


298  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

green  silk,  and  I  shall  wear  it  then !  What  is  your  best 
frock?" 

"  I  have  no  best  frock,"  said  Jane,  "  only  one  old  stuff  and 
one  new  stuff,  and  I  wear  white  on  Sundays  in  sammer,  and 
when  I  go  out  with  mamma,  if  you  mean  that  ?" 

"  No,  I  wear  white  sometimes  in  summer  ;  but  how  very  odd 
you  should  not  have  a  best  frock !  Shall  you  come  in  your 
stuff  frock,  then?" 

"  1  don't  think  mamma  will  let  me  come  at  all,"  said  Jane, 
*'  I  never  go  out  to  tea  without  mamma,  unless  it  is  with  nurse 
into  the  country  in  the  summer-time." 

"  Well,  but  you  will  ask,  will  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  ask  mamma,"  said  Jane. 

"  What  are  you  dojng  here,  then  ?"  said  Jane's  young  visitor, 
looking  down  on  the  patchwork  carpet ;  "  sowing  bits  of  carpet, 
I  declare  !  what  terrible  hard  work  !  I  never  have  such  work 
to  do." 

"  It  is  not  hard,"  said  Jane,  "  I  like  it  very  much ;  it 's  for  a 
poor  old  woman  who  has  nothing  to  lay  on  her  floor,  and  her 
floor  is  damp !" 

"  O,  well,  I  don't  know  any  old  women,  but  if  I  did,  I  think 
I  should  get  my  mamma  to  buy  her  a  bit  of  carpet !" 

"  Mamma  says,"  replied  Jane,  "  that  it  is  much  better  to  give 
what  we  have  made  ;  and  I  know  ray  old  woman  will  like  it  a 
great  deal  the  more  for  my  having  made  it.  And  mamma  says 
it  will  be  much  stronger  and  warmer  than  a  new  piece,  because 
of  all  the  joins  I  have  made  !" 

"  O  yes,  I  dare  say  it  will ;  but  if  you  come  and  see  me  on 
Fiiday,  I  will  show  you  my  work ;  I  am  working  a  little  boy 
and  girl  in  worsted,  sitting  on  a  stool,  and  they  have  such  rosy 
faces  !  I  think  I  shall  give  it  to  mamma  when  I  have  finished 
it,  but  I  don't  know,  because  mamma  says  she  is  tired  of  the 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  299 

sight  of  it ;  but  if  I  don't  give  it  to  mamma,  I  shall  find  some 
one  to  give  it  to." 

When  her  young  visitor  was  gone,  Jane  said  to  her  nurse, 
*•  Do  you  think  mamma  would  like  it  if  I  were  to  work  some 
cliildren  sitting  on  a  stool  for  her  ?" 

"  Nonsense !"  said  nm*se,  "  your  mamma  sees  enough  of  chil- 
dren sitting  on  stools,  without  your  wasting  your  time  in  show- 
ing her.  I  have  no  patience  with  such  folly ;  you  had  much 
better  make  carpets  all  your  life  for  those  who  have  none !" 

"  I  never  made  any  thing  for  mamma,"  said  Jane. 

"  Well,  you  may  be  sure  your  mamma  is  best  pleased  when 
you  are  working  for  the  poor ;  but  if  you  want  to  make  some- 
thing for  her,  I  can  tell  you  what  would  be  a  great  deal  better 
than  children  sitting  on  stools !" 

"  What,  nurse  ?" 

"  Why,  net  her  a  purse !  she  uses  one  of  those  wove  things, 
that  look  old  before  ever  they  look  new ;  you  might  make  her 
one  that  would  look  and  wear  well,  and  there  would  be  some 
sense  in  that." 

"  But  I  can  not  do  netting,  nurse." 

"  0, 1  can  soon  teach  you  that ;  if  you  save  up  youi  pence  for 
three  weeks,  you  can  buy  a  skein  and  begin.  I  have  got  a 
needle  and  pin." 

"  But  will  mamma  know  ?" 

"  There  is  no  need  she  should :  if  you  like  to  be  up  these 
light  mornings  you  may  work  an  liour  before  breakfast,  by  three 
weeks'  time  it  may  be  a  great  deal  warmer  than  now ;  but  then 
you  must  save  up  all  your  money,  because  there  will  be  the 
rings  and  the  tassels  as  well  as  the  silk." 

The  agreement  was  joyfully  made.  Now  came  the  finishing 
of  the  patch-work  cai-pet,  and  Jane,  with  her  nurse's  help,  carried 
it  up  to  the  old  woman,  and  laid  it  down  before  her  wondering 


SOO  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

eyes,  and  then  looked  round  with  delighted  feeling  at  the  change 
in  the  cottage,  and  the  change  in  the  dear  old  woman  since  the 
day  when  fii-st  she  entered  it. 

The  purse  could  not  be  begun  till  the  first  three-pence  was 
saved  up. 

"  You  don't  know  why  I  save  up  my  money  now,  mamma !" 
said  Jane  to  her  mother. 

"  No,  indeed,  I  can  not  tell ;  do  you  want  a  few  of  my  pence 
to  help  yours  a  little,  that  I  may  know  the  sooner  ?" 

"  O,  no,  mamma,  that  would  not  do  at  all,  it  must  be  all  my 
own  money !"  but  while  the  child  answered  so,  she  felt  the  con 
fidence  that  would  have  helped  her  secret  purpose  without  even 
asking  to  know  it. 

Jane  could  not  quite  forget  her  young  visitor's  remarks,  so 
one  day  she  said  to  her  nurse,  "  Mamma  never  buys  me  a  best 
frock!" 

"  No,  nor  does  not  need,"  replied  nurse,  "  it 's  only  those  who 
don't  look  always  as  they  should,  and  who  want  to  look  some- 
times as  they  should  not,  who  think  about  best  dresses !  Your 
mamma  always  keeps  you  neat,  and  fit  to  be  seen  according  to 
your  station,  and  so  you  have  no  more  need  to  think  about 
wanting  a  best  frock  than  any  lady  in  the  land." 

There  was  something  so  decided  and  satisfactoiy  to  Jane  in 
her  nurse's  reply,  that  she  thought  no  more  upon  the  subject, 
quite  convinced  that  to  be  always  neat  was  the  only  point  of 
importance.  But  she  could  not  so  readily  forget  the  worsted- 
work,  and  though  she  was  intent  on  her  secret  purse,  she  still 
thought  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  do  some  work  with  colored 
wools ;  she  did  not  go  to  her  young  visitor's  party,  so  she  had 
not  seen  the  work  of  which  she  had  heard  so  much.  "  Mamma," 
said  Jane,  one  day,  "  should  you  think  that  children  sitting  on  a 
Btool  would  look  pretty  done  in  worsted-work  ?" 


MINISTERING     CHIJ.DliEN.  301 

"  I  do  not  know,  unless  I  saw  tliem,"  replied  lier  mother,  "  but 
I  do  not  generally  admire  such  pieces  of  work;  they  take  a 
great  deal  of  time  and  attention,  more,  I  think,  than  they  are 
worth.     Did  you  wish  to  try  some  worsted-work  r' 

"  Yes,  mamma,  I  should  like  very  much,  only  nurse  said  it 
v^  as  nonsense  to  do  children  sitting  on  a  stool,  and  I  don't  know 
what  else  could  be  done." 

"  A  great  many  things  can  be  done !  I  think  the  best  would 
be  to  work  your  father  a  pair  of  worsted  sHppers,  to  put  on 
when  he  comes  in  from  the  shop ;  nurse  would  not  think  that 
nonsense." 

"  O,  yes,  I  should  like  that  a  great  deal  the  best !  May  I  do 
that,  mamma  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  shall  go  to  the  shop  with  me  and  choose  them  for 
yourself." 

And  so  the  child  found  full  employment  now,  in  her  early 
work  for  her  mother,  and  her  later  work  for  her  father — all 
through  the  spring's  bright  weeks ;  and  then  the  joy  of  present- 
ing her  gifts,  and  seeing  the  lasting  pleasure  with  which  they 
were  used — the  smile  of  remembrance  that  fell  on  her  glad  eyes 
when  the  purse  was  drawn  out  sometimes,  or  the  slippers  put  on. 
And  thus,  within  and  without  her  home,  every  pure  and  hallowed 
sympathy  was  strengthened  in  her  young  life  by  natural  and 
easy  exercise. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

■'  The  world's  a  room  of  sickness,  where  each'heart 
Knows  its  own  anguish  and  unrest ; 
The  truest  wisdom  there,  and  noblest  art, 
Is  his,  who  skills  of  comfort  best" 

I  N  tbe  following  spring  an  invitation  came  for  Rose,  from  her 
■*-.  mother's  only  brother,  a  farmer  on  a  large  grass-farm  in  Der- 
byshire :  it  was  a  long  journey  for  Rose  to  take,  and  her  father 
was  very  unwilling  to  lose  his  little  comforter  from  his  home  : 
Rose  also  did  not  like  the  thouglit  of  another  visit  to  unknown 
relations,  but  her  mother  was  resolved — Mrs.  Smith  said  that 
her  brother  would  have  good  reason  to  be  offended  as  Rose  had 
been  allowed  to  visit  her  other  uncle,  if  his  invitation  was  now 
refused  ;  so  the  engagement  was  made,  and  Rose  was  to  meet 
her  uncle  in  London,  to  which  place  he  expected  to  travel  up 
in  about  three  weeks'  time ;  and  as  in  those  days  it  was  not 
thought  worth  while  for  children  to  take  a  long  journey  for  a 
short  period,  it  was  settled  that  Rose  was  to  spend  three 
months  beneath  her  Derbyshire  uncle's  roof. 

When  Molly,  the  maid  at  the  farm,  found  that  Rose  was  to 
leave  for  another  long  visit,  her  patient  endurance  gave  way  to 
despair,  and  after  nine  years'  faithful  service  slie  told  her  mis- 
tress that  she  must  leave  her  place — unable  to  bear  the  prospect 
of  her  mistress's  trying  temper  without  Rose  to  soften  it.  Things 
were  not  improved  in  the  house  by  Molly's  giving  warning ; 
Mrs.  Smith  really  valued  her  and  was  very  sorry  to  lose  her  j 
302 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  803 

but  tlie  pride  of  heart  whicli  made  Mrs.  Smith's  temper  so  trying 
to  all,  would  not  now  suffer  her  to  express  any  regret>— -she  only 
showed  resentment  at  what  she  called  Molly's  ingratitude ;  and 
Rose  left  her  home  with  a  sorrowful  heart. 

When  the  time  for  Molly's  departure  arrived,  she  came  to  take 
leave  of  hex  mistress  in  tears-=-little  Tim  had  run  off  crying,  to 
hide  himself  in  the  stable — and  Molly  gathered  courage  and 
said,  "  I  am  sure,  ma'am,  I  never  would  have  left  your  place  for 
another,  if  I  might  have  but  reckoned  on  a,  pleasant  word  some- 
times ;  but  I  don't  think,  since  master  Joe  and  the  horse  went 
away,  you  have  given  me  so  much  as  one  smile — and  I'm  sure 
that  their  going  was  none  of  my  doing ;  and  I  can't  stand  it, 
ma'am,  and  I  don't  see  who  is  to  stand  it !"  There  still  were 
moments  when  Mrs.  Smith's  pride  had  almost  more  than 
enough  to  do  in  keeping  down  and  hiding  up  the  buried  feeling 
of  her  heart ;  and  now  when  her  faithful,  her  really  valued  serv- 
ant stood  before  her  and  confessed  that  her  mistress  could  hav« 
bound  her  to  her  service  by  a  smile,  when  that  servant  was 
really  departing,  Mrs.  Smith  found  the  only  disguise  for  her 
feeling  would  be  silence — she  did  not  therefore  speak  a  word — • 
she  held  out  Molly's  wages  without  looking  at  her,  and  then 
turned  another  way ;  while  poor  Molly,  quite  overcome  by  what 
seemed  to  her  the  unkindest  act  of  all,  left  the  farm  for  her 
mother's  distant  village,  with  a  feeling  of  unreturned  affection 
and  heart-broken  distress. 

There  was  one  person — and  only  one — with  whom  Mrs.  Smith 
had  to  do,  to  whom  she  had  never  spoken  a  harsh  word :  it  was 
not  Rose,  it  was  not  little  Tim,  it  was  not  her  favorite  William ; 
no,  it  was  the  orphan  child,  Mercy  Jones.  It  was  true  the 
orphan's  grandmother,  Widow  Jones,  had  always  stood  as  high 
as  possible  in  Mrs.  Smith's  regard ;  Jem  also,  Mercy's  uncle,  Mrs. 
Smith  considered  worth  all  the  other  men  and  boys  on  the  faiiii 


804  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

put  together,  because  she  said,  "  If  you  make  him  understain^ 
what  is  to  be  done,  you  may  give  up  the  worry  yourself!"  But 
it  was  not  her  grandmother's  and  her  uncle's  good  qualities  that 
procured  such  favor  for  Mercy,  Mrs.  Smith  was  a  strict  examiner 
of  each  individual  with  whom  she  had  to  do,  and  nothing  but 
personal  integiity  could  ever  win  her  regard.  Mercy  was  a  tall, 
delicate-looking,  gentle  child,  with  a  thoughtful  heart,  a  willing 
mind,  and  a  ready  skill,  that  far  more  than  compensated  for  her 
lack  of  strength ;  and  now  that  for  the  first  time  in  nine  years 
the  farm  was  left  without  a  maid,  widow  Jones  and  Mercy  both 
came  in  to  help.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that  these  two 
helpers  would  prove  equal  to  Molly's  former  service,  and  so  they 
might  have  been  but  for  Mrs.  Smith's  apprehensions  on  Mercy's 
behalf:  "Here,  give  that  to  me,  girl,"  she  would  continually  say, 
taking  the  work  from  Mercy's  hands,  and  finishing  it  up  with 
equal  energy  and  sevenfold  power ;  then,  kindly  adding,  "  It's 
not,  as  I  say,  because  you  have  not  the  notion,  but  because  you 
have  not  the  strength !"  While  to  her  husband  Mrs.  Smith  was 
constantly  declaring,  "  Slave  as  I  may,  I  am  sure  that  girl  will 
be  overdone !  she's  too  willing,  and  the  work 's  beyond  her,  and 
an  orphan  too  as  she  is — I  wish  enough  I  could  meet  with  some 
one  I  should  not  always  be  afraid  to  put  upon !"  Many  girls 
came  and  offered  themselves,  but  Mrs.  Smith  declared  that  there 
was  not  so  much  as  one  among  them  who  had  any  right  to  the 
name  of  a  servant ;  she  could  tell  that  without  any  need  of  a 
trial !  All  this  time,  while  vexing  over  Mercy's  toil,  over-work- 
ing her  own  strength,  and  objecting  to  every  girl  who  came 
before  her,  Mrs.  Smith  never  named  the  absent  Molly :  in  all  the 
vexatious  trouble  she  daily  made  for  herself,  she  cast  no  fresh 
censure  on  Molly ;  and  could  Molly  have  seen  her  mistress's  real 
feeling,  the  probability  would  have  been  her  instant  return  to 
offer  her  services  again;  but  pride  lay  between  Mrs.  Smith'a 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  806 

heart  and  her  lips,  and  kept  lier  continually  back  from  the  con- 
fessions that  would  have  led  to  peace  in  her  family,  instead  of 
strife  and  debate. 

All  through  the  years  of  which  we  have  been  speaking, 
Patience  had  lived  on  in  her  place  of  service  with  the  family  of 
Mr.  Mansfield's  foreman ;  but  her  master  and  mistress  had  for 
some  time  felt  that  the  increasing  expenses  of  their  growing 
family  were  putting  a  servant  beyond  their  means ;  and  a  still 
stronger  reason  for  doing  without  one  lay  in  the  good  sense  of 
these  excellent  parents,  who  both  felt  that  the  best  way  of  teach' 
ing  their  children  diligence  and  method  in  accomplishing  work, 
would  be  to  bring  them  up  to  get  well  through  all  that  their 
own  home  required.  But  how  to  send  Patience  away  was  the 
painful  part,  and  month  after  month,  then  week  after  week,  her 
dismissal  was  delayed,  till  at  last  the  foreman's  wife  said,  "  Well, 
I  can  not  help  it,  she  has  worked  like  a  child  for  me,  and  you 
must  tell  her,  for  I  can't ;  you  hired  her,  she  knows,  and  so  it 
will  come  natural  to  her !"  It  was  very  seldom  that  the  good 
woman's  resolution  failed  her,  but  now  it  did ;  and  her  husband's 
mild  firamess  came  in  to  the  rescue  of  their  home  principles. 
He  told  Patience  quietly  and  decidedly  that  he  felt  the  time  had 
come  when  his  girls  must  do  all  the  work  of  their  house ;  that 
both  he  and  his  wife  valued  her  faithful  services,  but  still  more 
the  example  she  had  set  their  children ;  he  said  she  had  earned 
what  was  better  than  any  wages— the  lasting  regard  of  those  she 
had  served !  and  he  told  her  to  come  to  his  house,  as  a  home 
always  open  to  her,  while  she  maintained  the  same  character  she 
had  earned  in  his  family.  The  color  left  the  cheek  of  Patience, 
l)ut  ^AB  could  not  speak;  her  master  added,  kindly,  that  they 
should  not  think  of  parting  with  her  till  she  met  with  a  comfort- 
able place,  and  that,  therefore,  she  need  feel  no  anxiety  on  that 
subject,  and  then  left  her.    When  Patience  returned  to  her  mis- 


306  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

tress  and  the  children,  her  tears  broke  forth,  her  good  mistress 
cried  also,  and  the  children  cried,  but  her  mistress  making  an 
effort,  said,  cheerfully,  "  Come,  child,  it 's  not  for  you  to  fret ;  you 
have  done  your  duty  here,  and  your  reward  will  follow ;  you  arc 
only  going  to  make  more  friends,  and  not  to  lose  those  you  leave 
behind !  So  cheer  up,  and  be  as  busy  as  you  can — that 's  the 
best  cure  for  low  spirits  of  most  kinds."  So  Patience  tried,  but 
the  spring  of  her  work  was  gone.  She  worked  as  well  as  before, 
but  it  was  the  work  of  habit  and  principle,  not  the  energy  of 
life ;  and  often  through  her  heart  a  faintness  passed,  as  she  felt 
the  home  was  her's  no  longer !  she  must  wander  out  again  into 
the  world  her  childhood  found  so  rough ;  and  thoughts  of  her 
early  life  and  of  her  first  place  of  se^pvice  came  back  with  a  sink- 
ing weight  on  her  spirit. 

Having  spoken  to  Patience,  her  master  now  named  the  subject 
to  his  employer,  Mr.  Mansfield,  and  Mr.  Mansfield  promised  to 
name  it  to  some  of  his  best  customers.  Among  the  first  of  these 
on  the  next  day,  being  market-day,  was  farmer  Smith. 

"  It's  no  use  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Smith,  whether  you  want  a  serv- 
ant girl,  for  your's  knows  the  value  of  her  place,  it  seems,  too 
well  to  leave  it !" 

"Ah,  she  is  gone  at  last!"  replied  farmer  Smith,  gravely. 
"  Yes,  her's  was  nine  years  of  honest  service.  She  earned  her 
wages  fairly  enough ;  but  she  is  gone  at  last !" 

"  Well,  then,  I  can  find  you  just  such  another.  My  foreman, 
here,  like  a  wise  man,  is  giving  up  servant-keeping,  and  he  wants 
a  place,  he  says,  for  one  of  the  best  girls  who  ever  called  herself 
a  servant." 

At  this  the  foreman  came  forward  and  talked  with  farmei 
Smith,  and  Mr.  Mansfield  waited  on  his  other  customers. 

Now,  Mrs.  Smith  had  often  said  that  she  would  rather  by  far 
leach  a  girl  &rm-work  and  farm-ways  from  the  beginning,  than 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  S07 

have  one  who  thought  herself  clever  at  every  thing !  So  farmer 
Smith  went  home,  thinking  he  had  met  with  the  very  girl  most 
likely  to  satisfy  .his  wife;  but  Mrs.  Smith  was  not  in  a  mood  to 
be  satisfied  with  any  thing,  or  any  body,  and  only  replied  to 
fanner  Smith's  pleasant  description :  "  And  what 's  the  use  of  a 
girl  who  never  stirred  from  the  town,  and  knows  only  town 
ways,  out  here  in  the  country  ?" 

"  Why,  a  good  servant  is  a  good  servant,"  replied  Mr.  Smith ; 
"  and  as  for  our  ways,  why,  she  can  learn  the  country  ways,  1 
suppose,  as  well  as  she  learned  the  town  ways — if  she  has  a 
mind  to  them !" 

"  But  it  is  not  the  least  likely  she  would  have  a  mind  to  them ; 
girls  who  have  been  used  to  the  town  never  settle  in  country 
places  like  this ;  she  had  a  thousand  times  better  stay  where  she 
is,"  said  Mrs.  Smith. 

Mr.  Smith  found  it  was  hopeless  to  urge  the  point;  so  he 
dropped  the  subject.  On  the  next  market-day  he  made  one 
more  attempt,  asking  Mrs.  Smith  if  she  would  not  like  to  go 
in  and  just  see  the  girl  ?  But  Mrs.  Smith  replied,  that  she 
could  judge  about  it  quite  as  well,  without  having  to  go  seven 
miles  to  come  to  an  opinion !  So  Mr.  Smith  took  his  drive  to 
the  town  alone.  He  called  at  Mr.  Mansfield's  shop,  and  re- 
quested the  foreman  to  wait  one  week  longer  for  his  answer, 
which  he  readily  consented  to  do,  as  he  thought  the  place  must 
be  a  good  one,  where  the  last  servant  had  remained  nine  years ; 
farmer  Smith's  <;haracter  also  stood  very  high,  and  Patience 
was  quite  willing  to  go.  "  Moreover,"  the  foreman  added,  "  my 
opinion  is,  that  the  girl  will  settle  all  the  better  a  little  distance 
from  my  wife  and  children,  of  whom  she  is  wonderfully  fond  !" 
So  farmer  Smith,  very  anxious  to  secure  a  good  girl  for  his 
wife  and  home,  waited  for  the  forlorn  hope  of  Mrs.  Smith'a 
change  of  feeling  b\  another  market-day. 


308  MINISTEEING     CHILDREN. 

The  week  ^^assed  by ;  every  girl  that  applied  for  the  place 
wa?  pronounced  by  Mrs.  Smith  to  be  as  unfit  as  could  be,  and 
the  last  person  she  would  think  of  engaging  with !  while  she  was 
stil.  vexed  at  having  no  servant  to  do  the  work,  and  protested 
that  Mercy  would  be  ill  with  overdoing — but  Mr.  Smith  heard 
all  in  perfect  silence.  The  next  market-day  arrived,  but  Mr. 
Smith  asked  no  questions;  he  prepared  as  usual  for  market; 
when,  just  as  with  hat  and  whip  he  was  leaving  the  house,  Mi's. 
Smith  followed  him  and  said,  "There  is  not  the  least  use  in  the 
world  in  my  going  all  that  way  after  a  girl  that  is  not  Hkely  to 
come,  or  to  stay  if  she  did  come ;  but  if  she  has  a  mind  to  come 
after  the  place  herself,  w^hy,  that 's  another  thing !" 

"When  would  you  like  her  to  come  then?"  inquired  Mr. 
Smith,  "  supposing  she  is  willing  ?" 

"  Why,  the  sooner  the  better !  I  am  sure  I  am  in  a  fidget 
about  that  child  Mercy,  every  day  of  my  life ;  it 's  a  wonder  that 
she  is  not  overset  already,  and  I  also,  with  the  work  of  such  a 
place  as  this  is !" 

Mr.  Smith  stepped  quietly  into  his  gig,  and  drove  off".  In  the 
evening  he  returned  with  Patience  seated  beside  him. 

"  What  have  you  been  after  now  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Smith,  in 
dismay,  calling  farmer  Smith  aside  privately.  "  That 's  just  the 
way  with  you,  never  giving  one  time  to  turn  round ;  you  think  a 
thing  is  no  sooner  said  than  it  can  be  done  !  I  never  meant  the 
girl  to  come  for  good  till  I  had  seen  her !" 

"  Well,  wife,"  replied  Farmer  Smith  calmly,  *'  there  is  no  harm 
done ;  the  girl  could  not  make  her  way  out  here  alone.  If  you 
don't  fancy  her,  Jem  can  drive  her  back  in  the  light-cart  after 
tea,  or  you  can  keep  her  a  week  on  trial ;  both  her  mistress  and 
the  girl  were  willing  either  way." 

Hearing  this,  Mrs.  Smith  was  somewhat  pacified,  and  she 
went  out  to  receive  Patience,  who  stood  waiting  at  the  door, 


MINISTEKING     CHILDREN.  309 

There  stood  Patience,  a  stout,  strongly-built  young  woman, 
with  a  fresh  color  and  pleasant  face,  her  dress  neatness  itself 
When  she  saw  her  expected  mistress.  Patience  made  a  low  cour* 
tesy,  such  as  she  had  always  been  used  to  in  her  school  days  in 
the  town,  and  she  stood  silently  before  Mrs.  Smith.  Now  Mrs. 
Smith  was  not  naturally  without  kindness  of  heart ;  it  was  pride 
and  selfishness  which  she  had  suffered  to  grow  within  her  unre- 
strained, that  blinded  her  to  the  feelings  of  others ;  but  when  she 
saw  a  stranger  girl  before  her,  one  of  whom  she  heard  so  good  a 
character,  her  natural  kindness  rose  unimpeded,  she  received  her 
with  a  welcome,  and  made  her  take  a  comfortable  tea ;  and  said 
that  as  she  w^as  come  so  far,  and  had  brought  her  things  with 
her,  she  had  at  all  events  better  stay  the  week. 

Patience  rose  the  next  morning,  almost  at  break  of  day.  She 
opened  her  little  window,  and  w^ondered  at  the  fragrance  of  the 
air ;  she  looked  over  the  land,  and  while  she  sighed  for  the  sleep- 
ing children  far  away,  and  the  cheerful  call  of  her  mistress's  kind 
quick  tone,  chat  could  not  reach  her  now — while  she  sighed  for 
these,  she  felt  that  she  could  love  those  pleasant  fields  better  far 
than  the  town,  and  that  if  she  could  but  bring  her  master's  family 
to  her,  she  should  never  wish  for  the  town  again ;  but  then  the 
feeling  of  a  stranger  in  a  strange  place  came  over  her,  and  she 
could  only  turn  from  the  window  to  commit  herself  in  prayer  to 
Him  who  is  the  stranger's  God.  As  soon  as  Patience  heard  her 
mistress  moving,  she  left  her  room,  and,  greatly  to  the  surprise 
of  Mrs.  Smith,  her  new  maid  stood  before  her  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  in  her  neat  gown  of  dark  blue,  with  short  sleeves, 
and  a  stout  apron — as  fit  for  farm-house  work  as  for  any  other. 
There  was  about  Patience  a  quietness  of  look  and  manner  that 
made  a  strange  contrast  with  her  active  figure  and  step,  quick 
without  haste,  and  quiet  without  dullness — it  might  be  that  the 
exterior  of  her  early  sorrow  had  never  been  quite  effaced,  but 


810  MINISTERING     CKILDREN. 

left  its  gentlest  shade  upon  her  life's  after  vigor  and  briglitneas. 
There  was  also  a  propriety  of  manner  about  Patience  that  could 
not  fail  to  produce  a  pleasing  impression,  and  a  readiness  of  at- 
tention and  willingness  of  movement  that  made  it  no  effort  to 
tell  her  to  do  any  thing ;  while  her  thoughtful  care  more  fre- 
quently prevented  the  need  of  her  being  told.  Mrs.  Smith's 
quick  eye  soon  read  these  qualifications,  and  the  consequence 
was,  she  instantly  made  up  her  mind  that  Patience  would  con- 
sider herself  too  good  for  the  place,  and  would  be  certain  not  to 
stay ;  but  still,  as  she  felt  her  deserving  of  attention,  she  put  her 
in  the  way  of  farm-house  work,  giving  her  daily  instmction  in 
milking  and  other  peculiarities  of  the  daiiy.  Patience  was  very 
grave,  for  her  heart  was  still  in  her  last  place,  she  was  always 
finding  herself  back  again  in  thought  with  those  she  had  left, 
and  Mrs.  Smith  failed  not  to  set  this  down  to  discontent.  "  But, 
surely,"  said  Mr.  Smith,  "  the  girl  does  every  thing  in  as  pleas- 
ant a  way  as  can  be,  and  what  would  you  have  more  ?" 

"  0  !  that 's  only  by  way  of  keeping  up  her  character,"  replied 
Mrs.  Smith.  "  You  will  see  she  will  never  stay  a  day  beyond 
her  week ;  I  am  sure  she  will  never  come  down  to  the  place,  her 
manners  are  above  it !" 

Mrs.  Smith  did  not  know  she  had  one  beneath  her  roof  who 
had  been  humbled  in  sorrow's  bitter  school ;  one  who  souo-ht 
not  pride  but  love ;  whose  heart  no  money  could  win  to  her 
place,  but  which  affection's  power  or  feeling's  claim  could  bind 
to  any  service ;  and  so  she  made  up  her  mind  that  Patience 
would  consider  herself  above  the  place  and  go ;  and  she  said  it 
was  very  hard  to  have  nothing  before  her  but  teaching  the  same 
things  over  and  over  again  to  perhaps  a  dozen  girls  one  after 
another,  for  she  was  sure  the  place  would  nevei  suit  this  girl, 
and  it  was  not  likely  she  would  find  a  girl  in  a  hurry  that  would 
suit  her !     Mr.  Smith  heard  in  silence. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  811 

The  end  of  the  week  came.  Patience  said  nothing ;  so  Mra. 
Smith  felt  it  incmnbent  upon  her  to  speak. 

"  Well,  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  you  have  done  full  as  well  aa 
any  one  might  expect ;  but  of  course  the  place  is  not  one  to  suit 
you,  any  oiie  can  see  that,  so  I  can  only  wish  you  a  better.  We 
will  make  out  a  way  to  get  you  back  to  your  friends." 

Patience  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  the  color  deepened  in  hei 
cheeks.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  leave  the  place,  ma'am,"  she  replied, 
*'  if  I  could  suit  you ;  I  am  not  likely  to  find  a  better." 

Mrs.  Smith  was  now  more  surprised  than  Patience  had  been, 
and  not  altogether  pleased  at  finding  herself  mistaken ;  for  Mrs. 
Smith  always  felt  a  secret  satisfaction  in  seeing  her  predictions 
fulfilled,  even  though  she  considered  the  events  to  be  evil. 
Happily  Patience  had  said  that  she  did  not  think  herself  likely 
to  find  a  better  place,  and  this  single  expression  of  feeling  from 
a  heart  in  which  pride  had  no  indulgence,  went  far  to  relieve  the 
involuntary  annoyance  Mrs.  Smith  felt  at  finding  her  own  im- 
pression a  wrong  one.     So  Patience  stayed. 

But  from  the  day  on  which  Mrs.  Smith  looked  upon  Patience 
as  really  her  servant,  she  began  her  usual  tone  of  harsh  authority. 
Patience  was  neither  slow  to  learn  nor  frequent  in  forgetting ; 
but  the  dread  of  her  mistress's  voice  made  her  painfully  anxious 
about  every  possible  thing  that  could  be  expected  of  her.  The 
heavy,  anxious  look  of  her  childhood  began  again  to  steal  over 
and  shadow  the  pleasant  expression  of  her  face.  She  would 
stand  sometimes  and  watch  little  Tim  in  the  farm-yard,  by  the 
side  of  his  father,  or  talking  with  Jem,  and  she  would  think  that 
child  seemed  the  only  one  that  she  could  love ;  but  he  was  sel- 
dom within,  always  running  away  as  soon  as  possible  from  his 
mother's  harsh  voice.  He  was  a  favorite  with  all  the  laborers, 
and  they  would  do  any  thing  to  please  him.  But  Jem  was  his 
chief  friend.     From  the  time  that  William  had  left,  he  had 


S12  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

taken  to  Jem,  as  if  lie  considered  him  to  be  most  like  bis  lost 
brother,  and  no  one  could  so  easily  wake  the  clear  tones  of  his 
merry  laugh  as  honest  Jem.  He  would  ride  on  his  shoulder, 
wander  down  to  find  him  with  the  sheep,  share  his  homely  food ; 
and  now  that  Rose  was  away,  he  would  get  to  him  whenever  he 
could.  Poor  Patience  used  to  watch  the  child,  and  wish  that 
he  would  turn  to  her  as  he  did  to  Jem ;  but  Molly  was  still 
fresh  in  the  memory  of  little  Tim,  and  he  scarcely  looked  at 
Patience.  So  Patience  felt  more  and  more  desolate,  while  closer 
round  her  heart  pressed  the  warm  memories  of  the  home  she 
had  left. 

While  things  were  in  this  state,  Jem,  who  had  been  sent  on 
an  errand  to  the  town,  came  into  the  back-kitchen  to  have  some 
provision  on  his  return.  It  was  evening,  and  Patience  was  sit- 
ting there  alone.  Jem  had  often  observed  her  disconsolate  look, 
and  it  hurt  his  kind  and  honest  heart  to  see  so  little  comfort  for 
her ;  and  now  as  he  sat  on  the  back-kitchen  bench,  cutting  his 
bread  and  meat  with  his  great  pocket-knife,  he  ventured  a  re- 
mark :  "  Living  out  here  in  the  country,  I  take  it,  does  n't  suit 
you  like  down  there  in  the  town  ?" 

"No,  it's  very  different,"  replied  Patience;  and  there  was 
silence  again. 

"  You  seem  hard  done  up  in  your  thoughts,"  again  observed 
Jem ;  "  I  hope  you  have  n't  happened  with  any  misfortune." 

"No,  not  that  exactly,"  Patience  slowly  replied;  and  then, 
encouraged  by  Jem's  friendly  tone,  and  not  less  by  the  expres- 
sion of  his  honest  face,  which  she  had  seen  most  days  since  she 
had  been  at  the  farm,  she  went  on  to  say — "  I  was  thinking  how 
little  wae:es  I  could  do  with !  I  think  I  could  do  with  less  than 
my  last  mistress  would  have  liked  to  offer  me ;  only  then  I  re- 
membered there 's  the  food,  and  one  must  eat  if  one 's  to  live  !" 

Jem  had  no  skill  in  arithmetic,  and  could  not  render  much 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  818 

aid  in  such  a  calculation ;  but  lie  had  a  far  quicker  estimate, 
pel  haps,  than  many  an  arithmetician  of  the  heart's  joys  and  sor- 
rows, and  he  came  in  with  his  friendly  aid  at  the  root  of  the 
matter.     "  Are  you  after  a  change,  then  ?"  he  asked.  . 

"  Well,"  rephed  Patience,  "  I  was  thinking  if  I  could  get  back 
anyhow  where  I  came  from,  I  would  rather  live  there  on  dry 
bread,  among  those  that  were  one  with  me,  than  here,  where  no 
one  has  a  care  for  one,  on  any  wages !" 

"But,"  answered  Jem,  "they  said  you  could  not  hold,  the 
place,  because  the  family  gave  up  servant-keeping  ?" 

"  So  they  did,"  said  Patience,  "  and  I'm  afraid  they  would  not 
take  me  back  if  I  could  go  without  wages ;  only  I  can't  help 
thinking  about  it !" 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Jem,  "  take  my  advice.  You  will  never  do 
yourself  or  others  a  straw's  worth  of  good  thinking  on  what  can 
not  be,  and  don't  be  down-hearted  here.  Mistress  is  hasty,  I 
know ;  but  I  have  served  her  from  a  child,  and  if  once  you  get 
right  with  her,  you  will  never  have  a  trouble  from  her  again. 
She  is  always  for  thinking  eveiy  one  will  go  wrong  till  she  finds 
they  go  no  way  but  right.  Once  let  her  get  persuaded  of  that, 
and  she  would  not  believe  the  whole  world  if  they  stood  out 
against  you.  I  know  it's  hard  in  the  coming,  and  she  has  been 
put  out  of  late  more  than  common  one  way  or  another,  and  the 
last  maid  could  not  put  up  with  it,  nor  wait  for  things  to  work 
round  again,  so  she  left ;  but  only  you  keep  right  on  as  you 
have  begun,  and  you  will  be  sure  to  find  things  mend  in  good 
time." 

This  conversation  was  the  first  encouragement  poor  Patience 
had  had ;  it  eased  her  spirit  also  to  have  been  able  to  speak  on 
the  subject,  and  for  a  time  she  went  more  cheerfully  on.  But 
the  same  harsh  tone,  the  same  cold  short  manner,  met  her  every 
efibrt,  and  after  a  while  she  lost  heart  again,  and  began  to  think 

14 


814  MINISTERING    CHILDREN. 

she  must  give  up,  and  try  to  find  some  other  place.  But  whert 
could  she  turn  ?  She  had  no  opportunity,  so  far  from  the  town, 
of  making  inquiry,  and  she  was  ashamed  to  write  to  her  mistress, 
and  say  she  could  not  stay  in  the  place  she  had  been  so  glad  to 
secure  for  her.  She  was  sitting  at  her  needle  on  the  low  chair 
in  the  back-kitchen,  and  as  she  thought  on  these  things  her  tears 
fell  on  her  work.  Little  Tim  had  come,  unperceived  by  her,  to 
the  back-door,  and  as  he  stood  there  looking  in,  he  saw  Patience 
crying.  The  sight  touched  his  heart,  for  little  Tim  was  no 
stranger  to  tears,  especially  since  Rose  had  been  away ;  so  he 
went  up  to  Patience,  and  said  in  his  kindest  little  voice,  "  What 
for  you  kie  ?" 

"  Because  no  one  loves  me  here,"  said  Patience. 

"  I  will  love  you,"  said  little  Tim,  putting  his  hand  upon  her 
cheek,  and  then,  when  Patience  still  cried,  slipping  •  his  arm 
round  her  neck,  he  said  again,  "  I  will  love  you  very  much ; 
don't  kie  any  more." 

Patience  clasped  her  arms  round  the  child,  and  laid  her  head 
one  moment  on  his  little  shoulder,  as  he  stood  beside  her,  and 
sobbed ;  then  looking  up,  she  made  an  effort,  and  wiped  away 
her  tears,  and  said,  "  If  you  love  me,  then  I  will  not  cry !"  From 
that  time  little  Tim  seemed  to  feel  that  it  depended  upon  him  to 
keep  Patience  from  crying.  He  would  often  come  and  look  at 
her  from  the  back-kitchen  door,  and  when  she  was  alone  would 
stay  beside  her  and  talk  to  her ;  and  the  heart  of  poor  Patience 
grew  content  in  her  place,  because  of  the  love  and  care  of  that 
one  little  ministering  child. 

Rose  had  now  been  more  than  two  months  away,  and  they 
had  proved  happy  months  for  her.  Her  uncle  met  her  in  Lou- 
don— a  grave  and  silent  person,  of  whom  Rose  felt  afraid ;  but 
her  aunt's  kind  face,  and  her  cousins'  warm  greeting,  soon  made 
her  at  home  among  them.     She  found  every  one  of  them  fuU 


p.  314. 


MINISTliRlNG     CHILDREN.  315 

of  occupation ;  but  each  one  seemed  ready  for  her,  and  always 
able  to  find  her  a  help  and  comfort.  She  helped  her  cousins 
tend  tneir  poultry,  and  make  the  summer  preserves — learning 
manv  things  unknown  in  her  home.  She  helped  them  in  their 
garden,  where  she  learned  from  them  to  bud  roses,  prune  trees, 
and  as  the  summer  advanced,  to  distill  rose-leaves  and  herbs. 
She  helped  them  in  their  work — she  learned  to  cut  out  and 
make  by  herself  garments  for  the  poor;  and  often  while  she 
worked  with  them  one  read  aloud,  and  Rose  learned  more  of 
general  knowledge  in  that  visit  than  in  all  her  young  life  before. 
Here  she  heard  histories  of  mission.^  all  new  to  her ;  and  read 
of  other  countries,  also  new  and  strange  to  her.  She  sat  by  her 
cousins  while  they  taught  the  village  children  in  the  school,  till 
at  last  they  made  her  take  a  little  class  of  her  own ;  this  gave 
new  interest  and  delight  to  Rose,  and  she  thought  it  would  be  as 
hard  to  leave  the.  little  children  of  her  class  as  it  would  to  leave 
any  thing.  She  wondered  how  she  could  have  lived  so  long  with- 
out knowing  and  loving  relations  so  dear  to  her  now !  but  the 
distance  had  been  great  between  them.  Still  Rose  often  thought 
of  her  home,  and  longed  to  see  it  again,  though  she  did  not  like 
to  think  of  leaving  her  aunt  and  cousins  so  far  away.  But  when 
the  harvest-time  came,  and  Rose  was  expecting  to  return,  a  letter 
arrived  to  say  that  little  Tim  was  ill  with  a  dangerous  fever, 
and  the  letter  asked  that  Rose  might  still  remain  at  her  uncle's 
house,  for  fear  of  taking  the  fever  if  she  returned.  This  was 
unexpected  sorrow  for  Rose — little  Tim,  whom  she  loved  so 
much,  dangerously  ill,  and  she  could  not  nurse,  or  comfort,  or 
SG8  him!  Poor  Rose  was  overwhelmed  with  grief,  but  she 
had  those  around  her  now  who  knew  how  to  comfort ;  they 
loved  her  more  tenderly  in  her  sorrow  than  they  had  done 
before,  and  they  reminded  her  to  whom  to  look — even  to  th€ 
Saviour  who  can  comfort  any  heart  that  turns  to  ITim. 


816  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Little  Tim  lay  in  his  cot  at  home,  and  the  doctor  said  that  his 
life  was  in  danger.  Now  a  real  trial  was  come  to  Mrs.  Smith  at 
last ;  she  had  long  been  making  troubles  for  herself  and  others, 
but  trouble  was  come  now,  and  she  felt  it  was ;  and  all  that  be- 
fore she  had  made  so  much  of  was  forgotten.  Day  and  night 
she  watched  by  the  cot  of  little  Tim ;  he  did  not  like  to  lie  in 
her  arms  when  restless — ^he  seemed  uneasy  there,  and  cried  for 
Rose  when  his  mother  took  him ;  so,  weeping,  she  would  lay 
him  back  upon  his  pillow,  and  sit  long  hours  and  watch  beside 
him.  As  she  sat  there  a  sense  of  the  past  came  over  her — a 
senise  of  years  of  harshness  and  ill-temper,  of  peace  destroyed 
by  her,  and  sorrow  made  for  others ;  she  thought  too  of  how 
the  child  had  always  seemed  glad  to  slip  away  from  her,  as  if 
uneasy  in  her  presenco,  and  she  looked  down  on  his  burning 
cheek,  and  felt  as  if  it  would  kill  her  to  see  him  die.  Patience, 
too,  would  watch  beside  the  cot  while  widow  Jones  did  her 
work  below — and  it  seemed  to  ease  the  heavy  grief  of  Mrs. 
Smith  to  have  her  there.  The  men  were  constantly  inquiring 
for  the  child,  and  Jem  was  always  waiting  about  the  house 
when  possible,  helping  his  mother  to  do  the  work,  and  asking 
of  all  who  came  from  the  room  how  the  child  seemed  now  ? 

Mrs.  Smith  was  leaning  over  the  cot,  and  Patience  kneeling 
beside  it,  when  httle  Tim  called  "  Rose !  Rose !  do  come  to  Tim, 
come  now?"  "What  do  you  want,  my  darling?"  said  Mrs. 
Smith,  "I  will  do  it  for  you."  "I  want  to  pray,"  said  Httle 
Tim,  "and  Rose  can  teach  me,  I  forget  it  now!"  Mrs.  Smith 
was  silent 

"  Motlier,  can  you  pray  ?"  asked  little  Tim.  Mrs.  Smith  hid 
her  face  and  wept,  she  felt  she  could  not  pray,  she  had  never 
taught  her  child,  and  she  could  not  teach  him  now,  she  could 
think  of  nothing ! 

"  Can  you  pray,  Patens  ?"  asked  little  Tim,  in  his  anxiety. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  317 

*  Yes,  dear,  I  do  pray  for  you." 

"'Oh,  then  you  can  teach  it  to  me !  I  forget  it  all  qow  1"  said 
little  Tim,  and  he  joined  his  hands  together  in  act  of  prayer. 

Patience  repeated  the  prayer  she  had  taught  to  little  Ruth  in 
her  last  place,  and  Tim,  quite  satisfied,  repeated  it  after  her. 

"  Can  you  say  my  texes,  too  ?"  asked  little  Tim. 

Patience  made  a  guess,  and  said,  "  Suffer  the  little  children  to 
come  unto  Me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom 
of  Heaven ;"  it  proved  quite  right,  and  Httle  Tim  added,  "  I  can 
say  my  other,  '  Speak,  Lord,  for  thy  servant  heareth.'  " 

"  Now  I  can  say  my  hymn,"  said  little  Tim,  "  that  Rose  did 
teach  me ;"  and  looking  up  with  folded  hands,  he  repeated,  in 
his  broken  utterance — 

"  Lord,  look  upon  a  little  child, 
By  nature  sinful,  rude,  and  wild ; 
0  put  Thy  gracious  hands  on  me, 
And  make  me  aU  I  ought  to  be. 

"  Make  me  Thy  child— a  chad  of  God, 
"Washed  in  my  Saviour's  precious  blood ; 
And  my  whole  heart  from  sin  set  free, 
A  Uttle  vessel  full  of  Thee. 

"A  ptar  of  early  dawn,  and  bright, 
Shining  within  Thy  sacred  light ; 
A  beam  of  grace  to  all  around ; 
A  little  spot  of  hallowed  ground. 

"  Lord  Jesus,  take  me  to  Thy  breast, 
And  bless  me  that  I  may  be  blest ; 
Both  when  I  wake,  and  when  I  sleep, 
Thy  little  lamb  in  safety  keep." 

And  then,  satisfied,  he  said,  "  Mother,  don't  kie  any  mop^^ 


818  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Patens  can  teach  it  me  all !"  and  turning  his  choet  on  his  pil* 
low,  he  fell  peacefully  asleep. 

Day  and  night  Mrs.  Smith  repeated  to  herself,  and  tried  tc 
keep  in  her  memory  continually,  the  prayer  that  Patience  had 
said  for  little  Tim,  in  the  hope  that  he  would  ask  her  again  tc 
teach  him — ^but  he  never  appealed  to  his  mother  any  more : 
when  he  woke  from  sleep,  if  he  had  his  senses,  his  first  look  was 
for  Patience,  and  with  folded  hands  he  waited  fbr  her  to  teach 
him  "  how  to  pray." 

"  Does  it  hurt  you  very  much,  dear  ?"  asked  Patience,  as  she 
helped  Mrs.  Smith  to  dress  a  blister  on  the  child's  head.  "  No, 
nothing  hurts  me  now !"  said  little  Tim.  And  he  fell  asleep,  and 
woke  no  more  on  earth. 

It  was  grief  for  all :  but  the  mother's  heart  was  broken  up ; 
she  took  to  her  bed,  the  fever  that  had  taken  Httle  Tim  from 
earth  came  upon  her,  and  her  mind  wandered  in  sorrowful  deli- 
rium. Patience  was  her  devoted  nurse;  while  widow  Jones 
sometimes  gave  Patience  a  little  rest  from  the  sick-room,  or 
helped  her  in  it,  and  at  other  times  did  what  she  could  of  the 
work  below,  with  Jem  to  aid. 

"  I  see  it  now,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  when  for  a  short  time  her 
senses  returned,  "  I  see  it  all  now,  it  is  right  I  should  be  left  to 
die !  I  turned  fi'om  our  young  minister  who  would  have  taught 
me  how  to  live ;  and  now  death  is  come,  and  I  see  plain  enough 
that  I  am  not  ready  to  meet  it !" 

"  Don't  you  think  the  minister  would  come,  if  he  was  asked  ?" 
said  Patience  to  widow  Jones. 

"  What's  the  use  of  it  ?"  asked  widow  Jones,  "  she  is  scarcely 
a  moment  reasonable,  and  she  has  been  so  set  against  him,  it 
might  be  too  much  for  her  now." 

Widow  Jones  had  seen  their  aged  minister  sent  for  many 
times  to  ike  dying ;  but  he  had  never  unlocked  the  exhaustless 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  819 

treasuiy  of  the  love  of  God  in  Jesus  Christ  for  his  own  heart- 
therefore  he  knew  not  how  to  dispense  its  balm  of  Life,  its  sooth- 
ing peace  to  others :  widow  Jones  had  never  seen  the  servant  of 
the  most  Hio-h  God,  the  faithful  minister  of  the  truth  as  it  is  in 
Jesus,  draw  near  in  his  Master's  name  to  the  dying  bed  where 
hope  was  not — this  she  had  never  seen,  and  so  knowing  only 
what  she  had  seen,  she  only  replied,  "  What's  the  use  ?" 

But  Patience  was  not  to  be  so  easily  satisfied.  She  waited 
awhile,  and  then  she  went  to  her  master :  "  My  poor  mistress 
keeps  lamenting  so,"  she  said,  "  to  think  how  she  turned  from 
the  minister !  Don't  you  think  he  would  come  to  see  her  if  you 
asked  him,  sir  ?" 

Farmer  Smith  stood  silent.  '*  It 's  a  hard  case !"  he  replied ; 
"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  ;  I  have  been  ashamed  to  meet  him  for 
ever  so  long  now ;  and  it 's  more  than  a  year  since  he  has  been 
into  the  house,  your  poor  mistress  was  so  set  against  him ;  and 
now  such  a  fever  as  it  is,  and  her  senses  gone,  I  don't  know  that 
I  dare  to  ask  it !" 

"  May  I  go  sir,  and  just  tell  him  the  state  my  poor  mistress  is 
in,  and  hear  if  he  would  please  to  come  ?" 

"  But,"  said  farmer  Smith,  "  it  might  overset  her,  so  bad  as 
she  is,  and  then  if  she  were  worse  for  it,  I  should  have  to  answer 
for  it.     I  dare  not  engage  with  it !" 

So  Patience  returned  to  the  sick  chamber.  The  sun  was  set- 
ting in  the  autumnal  evening,  she  sat  down  by  the  window  and 
looked  into  the  glowing  sky,  and  thought  of  little  Tim.  The 
thought  was  sad,  yet  full  of  peace.  Lost  in  the  feeling,  she 
watched  the  sun's  decline  behind  the  purple  clouds ;  then  look 
ing  down  below  again,  she  saw  a  distant  figure  crossing  the  pas- 
ture in  the  valley.  It  was  the  curate !  Could  he  indeed  be 
coming  to  the  farm  ?  or  would  he  take  the  road  that  led  to  the 
cAtages  by  the  wood?     Patience  watched,  breathless  betweeo 


320  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

hope  and  fear !  He  crossed  the  farm-stile,  he  turned  to  the 
bridge  over  the  brook,  and  then  began  to  ascend  the  green  slope 
— ^he  was  coining  indeed !  Patience  ran  down.  Farmer  Smith 
was  still  within.  He  hastened  out  to  meet  his  visitor,  and  Pa- 
tience to  see  that  all  was  in  readiness  above. 

"  I  am  grieved  to  hear  of  your  heavy  trials,"  said  the  curate, 
as  he  entered  the  house  with  farmer  Smith.  "  I  was  absent  at 
the  death  of  your  child,  and  only  now  heard  on  my  return  of  the 
illness  of  your  wife.  I  thought  she  might  be  willing  to  see  me , 
but  if  not,  I  hope  I  may  be  permitted  to  speak  a  word  of  com- 
fort to  you." 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,  it  is  more  than  I  could  have  expected !"  said 
farmer  Smith,  hardly  able  to  speak  from  overburdened  feeling. 

"  It  is  a  dark  and  cloudy  day  for  you !"  said  the  curate.  "  In- 
deed a  storm  has  bm-st  upon  you ;  but  you  remember  how  after 
the  storm  the  bow  is  set  in  the  cloud  for  all  who  will  look  above 
to  the  Hand  that  smites  them.  The  storm  has  come,  and  now 
we  must  look  up  and  wait  and  watch,  in  prayer  and  faith,  for  the 
rainbow  of  promise  and  comfort.  Will  your  wife  be  able  and 
willing  to  see  me  ?" 

Mr.  Smith  went  to  the  sick  room,  and  returned,  saying,  "  She 
is  not  sensible,  sir,  and  I  am  afraid  it  is  but  putting  you  into 
danger." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,"  replied  the  curate,  "  if  you 
are  willing  I  should  go.  We  may  pray  for  her,  and  more  may 
be  known  by  her  than  you  think." 

"  Well,  then,  sir,  if  you  please,"  said  farmer  Smith.  And  the 
feet  of  the  publisher  of  peace,  the  bringer  of  good  tidings,  entered 
the  chamber  of  sickness  and  sorrow.  He  stood  a  moment  by  the 
bed,  and  looked  upon  the  poor  unconscious  sufferer,  then  said, 
"  Let  us  pray,"  and  kneeled  down  beside  the  bed,  while  fanuei 
Smith  and  Patience  knelt  also. 


p.  320. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  321 

"0  God  of  the  spirits  of  all  flesh,  thou  whc  art  a  just  God, 
and  yet  a  Saviour,  hear  us,  we  beseech  thee,  in  the  prayer  which 
we  offer  up,  through  thy  son  Jesus  Christ,  for  the  body  and  soul 
of  this  sick  woman.  In  thy  most  merciful  hands  are  the  issues 
of  life  and  death.  O  suffer  not  the  king  of  terrors  to  destroy, 
but  raise  her  up,  we  beseech  thee,  that  she  may  live  in  thy  sight 
O  spare  her,  most  merciful  Lord,  now  that  thou  hast  dug  with 
thy  chastening  hand  to  her  roots.  O  spare  her,  we  pray  thee, 
yet  another  year,  to  see  if  she  may  not  now  bear  fruit  to  thy 
honor  and  praise  and  glory !  Open  thou  her  ear,  good  Lord,  to 
hear  thy  still  small  voice  in  this  hour  of  tribulation ;  open  thou 
her  eyes  to  behold  the  Lamb  of  God  who  taketh  away  all  sin  ; 
open  thou  her  heart  to  receive  Him  whom  thou  hast  sent  to 
seek  and  to  save  that  which  was  lost.  As  thou  hast  plowed 
up  her  soul  with  affliction,  0  cast  in  the  precious  seed  of  thy 
word,  and  so  water  it  with  thy  grace,  and  nourish  it  with  thy 
blessing,  that  it  may  bring  forth  fruit  unto  life  eternal.  And 
cause,  we  beseech  thee,  the  doctrine  of  thy  grace  and  the  word 
of  thy  lips  to  distill  as  the  dew,  at  this  time,  upon  the  parched 
spirit  of  this  poor  sufferer,  that  she  may  know  the  power  of  its 
heavenly  refreshment.  We  ask -all  for  His  sake  whose  precious 
blood  cleanseth  from  all  sin,  and  whose  spirit  quickeneth  the 
dead,  even  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord.     Amen." 

Then,  sitting  down  beside  the  bed,  the  minister  repeated  softly 
ind  slowly,  "  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  "  Come  now  and  let  us  reason 
together,  saith  the  Lord ;  though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  they 
shall  be  as  white  as  snow ;  though  they  be  red  like  crimson, 
they  shall  be  as  wool."  "  Tlie  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  cleanseth 
from  all  sin."  "  Look  unto  Me  and  be  ye  saved,  all  the  ends  of 
the  earth ;  for  I  am  God,  and  there  is  none  else."  "  Ask,  and  it 
shall  be  given  you ;  seek,  and  ye  shall  find ;  knock,  and  it  shall 


322  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

be  opened  unto  you ;  for  every  one  tliat  asketli  receiveth,  and 
he  that  seeketh  findeth,  and  to  him  that  knocketh  it  sliall  be 
opened."  The  words,  the  tone  of  peace,  seemed  to  soothe  the 
sufferer — she  lay  still  and  composed.  Standing  up,  the  minister 
said,  fervently,  "  The  Lord  bless  thee  and  keep  thee ;  the  Lord 
make  his  face  to  shine  upon  thee,  and  be  gracious  unto  thee ; 
the  Lord  lift  up  the  light  of  his  countenance  upon  thee,  and  give 
thee  peace !"     And  then  he  left  the  room. 

The  curate  talked  long  with  farmer  Smith  below,  and  farmer 
Smith  found,  to  his  surprise,  that  there  was  no  resentment  at 
the  conduct  poor  Mrs.  Smith  had  shown  toward  him.  He  only 
spoke  the  words  and  breathed  the  spirit  of  sympathy,  and  coun- 
sel, and  comfort.  Oh,  what  a  weight  was  Hfted  that  evening 
fi'om  the  heart  of  farmer  Smith  !  The  opposition  expressed  and 
shown  in  his  home  to  the  curate,  had  kept  farmer  Smith  back 
from  venturing  to  speak  to  him ;  but  now  he  had  been  seated 
with  him  in  his  own  parlor  without  fear,  and  there  had  been 
able  to  utter  the  long  pent-up  and  hidden  feelings  of  his  heart. 
Oh,  how  the  father  thought  of  his  little  Rose  as  he  returned  with 
thankfulness  and  peace  to  his  kitchen ! 

"  Patience,  child,  is  it  you  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Smith  that  evening, 
when  the  light  of  day  had  faded,  and  the  candle  'was  Kt. 
"  Patience,  child,  is  it  you  ?  I  hardly  seem  to  know  where  I 
am,  and  yet  I  think  I  am  better,  I  have  had  such  a  heavenly 
dream — I  thought  I  was  carried,  all  so  bad  as  I  am,  in  my  bed 
to  the  church,  and  there  I  saw  the  new  minister  again !  O  how 
it  seemed  to  give  me  hope,  for  I  thought  I  had  turned  away 
from  him,  and  now  I  should  never  be  suffered  to  see  him  any 
more !  I  thought  he  stood  up,  but  he  seemed  to  speak  only  to 
me,  and  to  look  down  at  none  but  me,  and  he  preached  about 
"  rest,"  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  came  with  the  message  for  me, 
straight  from  the  God  above !  and  then  I  thought  I  looked  round 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  823 

for  little  Tim  to  hear  the  sweet  words  too,  but  he  was  not  there, 
and  then  I  remembered  he  was  gone !  but  still  it  did  not  seem 
to  strike  me  down  as  the  thought  of  him  did  before,  for  I  seemed 
to  know  he  was  gone  to  that  "  rest"  that  the  minister  was  preach 
ing  about.  O  how  it  did  ease  me  to  hear  our  new  minister 
again !  Patience,  child,  do  you  think  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  get 
to  the  church  any  more  before  I  am  carried  to  my  grave  ?" 

"0  yes,  dear  mistress,  I  do  think  you  will  Hve,  by  God's 
mercy ;  and  that  was  not  all  a  dream  you  had,  it  was  part  true, 
for  the  minister  has  been  here  to  see  you !" 

"  What !  our  rector  ?" 

"No,  the  curate  himself!  and  O,  I  feel  sure  since  he  came  and 
prayed  for  your  life,  and  your  pardon,  and  peace,  that  God  will 
give  it !" 

"  What !  our  curate  been  here  to  see  me !" 

"  Yes,  and  he  stood  up  here  by  the  bed,  and  he  said  those 
words,  '  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest.'  " 

"  Why,  those  are  the  very  words  I  thought  I  heard  him  preach' 
upon;  Who  could  have  thought  it!  Do  you  think  he  will 
come  again?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  he  will,"  replied  Patience,  "  and  he  will  find 
you  better  when  he  does !" 

The  next  day  the  curate  called  again.  Mrs.  Smith  had  been 
saved  all  anxiety  of  expectation — ^not  thinking  he  would  come 
again  so  soon :  she  was  much  overcome  at  seeing  him,  saying  to 
him,  "  O  sir,  I  thought  I  should  never  have  seen  you  again !" 

"  My  Master  has  sent  me  to  comfort  all  who  mourn,"  said  the 
minister,  "  and  I  hope  by  His  grace  to  be  able  to  comfort  you." 

"  O,  sir,  I  don't  know,  but  I  fear  not,  I  fear  my  comfort  is  dead, 
and  I  dying  myself !" 

**  The  Lord  my  God,"  said  the  minister,  "  is  one  who  quick- 


324  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

eneth  the  dead.  He  can  not  only  restore  you,  but  comfort  you 
also" 

"  Ah,  sir,  I  fear  you  don't  know  how  bad  I  have  been !  I  wa^ 
set  against  your  preaching  from  the  first,  because  you  said  there 
was  but  one  way  for  all,  and  you  invited  the  worst  sinners  to 
come  and  try  that  way,  and  it  hurt  my  pride — I  thought  they 
were  not  fit  to  be  put  so  along  with  me !  but  now  I  have  seen  that 
I  am  not  fit  to  be  put  with  t^om — for  I  am  the  worst  of  all !" 

"I  have  then  a  message  for  you,"  said  the  minister,  "you 
have  often  heard  it  before,  but  now  that  God  is  chastening  and 
teaching  you,  you  will  be  able  to  understand  its  meaning,  and  I 
trust  to  receive  its  comfort.  '  K  we  say  that  w^e  have  no  sin,  we 
deceive  ourselves,  and  the  truth  is  not  in  us.  If  we  confess  our 
sins,  God  is  faithful  and  just  to  forgive  us  our  sins,  and  to  cleanse 
us  from  all  unrighteousness.'  You  see,  then,  there  is  forgiveness 
for  you — ^pardon  and  peace  with  God  through  Jesus  Christ  our 
Lord,  if,  confessing  your  sins  unto  God,  you  look  to  the  Saviour, 
whom  God  has  set  forth  to  be  a  propitiation  for  sin." 

Mrs.  Smith  listened  to  the  words,  and  that  truth  which  before 
had  been  so  bitter,  was  now  sweet  to  her  hungry  soul.  The 
visits  of  the  minister  were  her  greatest  comfort.  Till  at  last 
from  that  sick-bed,  the  tones  of  hope,  and  peace,  and  praise  were 
heard :  and  the  always  pleasant  but  now  softened  smile  of  Mrs. 
Smith  would  fall  on  those  who  watched  beside  her;  and  on 
Patience  it  fell  with  something  of  a  mother's  feeling. 

The  evening  hearth  shone  bright  when  Mrs.  Smith  first  came 
iown  to  tea.  Samson  and  Ted  had  done  their  best  to  make  all 
.hings  cheerful  and  full  of  comfort.  Widow  Jones  had  put  away 
into  the  parlor  the  chair  of  little  Tim — ^but  the  motlier's  eye  tell 
on  its  vacant  place.  It  was  a  long  sad  lesson  that  mother's 
heart  had  still  to  learn ;  but,  sweetened  by  Heavenly  mercy,  and 
goothed  by  Heavenly  peace,  the  longest  lesson  will  only  the  more 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  326 

ent'^b.isli  the  heart,  and  root  it  the  deeper  in  faith,  hope,  and 
love. 

The  autumn  passed  away,  but  fear  of  infection  still  made  the 
anxious  mother  keep  Rose  from  home.  At  last  all  danger  was 
considered  over,  and  the  day  was  fixed.  Rose  was  to  return,  and 
her  two  brothers  also,  William  and  Joe,  were  to  join  her  in  Lon- 
don, and  letum  with  her.  O,  what  a  day  of  expectation  that 
was !  Jem  drove  the  horse  in  the  gig  to  the  next  village  inn, 
where  the  coach  always  stopped ;  then  leaving  it  there  he  walked 
back,  and  the  two  brothers,  with  Rose  in  the  gig  between 
them,  drove  home  together.  Far  over  the  now  empty  fields 
gleamed  the  light  from  the  farm-window,  of  the  blazing  logs 
heaped  up  by  Ted  upon  the  fire — the  mother,  in  her  gown  of 
black,  sat  in  her  chair  beside  it ;  the  tea  was  prepared,  and  the 
pile  of  buttered  toast,  which  Samson  made  in  Rose's  absence. 
Patience  had  had  an  extra  baking,  with  widow  Jones  to  help, 
and  all  her  skill  could  do  to  welcome  was  added  to  the  prepared 
reception.  Patience  had  never  seen  Rose  as  yet,  and  even  her 
heart  trembled  at  thought  of  the  one  for  whom  the  dying  child 
had  called,  returning  to  the  home  where  he  was  not.  But  in 
they  came.  Rose  first,  "  IMother !  oh,  mother !"  said  the  child,  and 
the  mother  held  her  long  pressed  in  that  close  embrace — as  if 
she  feared  that  she  too  might  pass  away  firom  her  sight  like  little 
Tim !  Then  in  came  William  and  Joe,  with  their  tender  and 
gentle  greeting;  and  with  softened  feeling  on  every  face,  and 
deeper  love  in  every  heart,  the  circle,  from  which  one  had  been 
taken,  drew  round  to  their  evening  repast. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

*♦  Enthroned  upon  a  hill  of  light, 
A  heavenly  minstrel  sings ; 
And  sounds  unutterably  bright 
Spring  from  the  golden  strings. 
Who  would  have  thought  so  fair  a  form 
Once  bent  beneath  an  earthly  storm  1" 

niHE  winter  passed  peacefully  away  at  the  farm.  There  was  a 
-*-  hush  about  the  place — a  sh^ow  evidently  hung  above  it,  the 
former  active  bustle  of  the  house  went  on  more  quietly  ;  but  it 
was  a  stillness  that  told  of  greater  depth,  a  shadow  beneath 
which  the  best  feelings  of  the  hearts  there,  str.engthened  and 
grew.  The  look  of  anxiety  which  used  so  often  to  cross  the 
young  and  blooming  face  of  Rose,  as  she  feared  in  time  past  hei 
mother's  hasty  feeling  at  every  fresh  proposal  or  event,  changed 
now  to  an  expression  of  peace — yet  with  a  quietness  about  it 
that  told  the  sense  of  something  gone,  which  steadied  the  light 
spirits  of  her  happy  youth,  steadied  but  did  not  sadden — ^for  she 
shared  the  happiness  of  little  Tim  ;  and  she  often  sung  aloud  tb 
first  rerse  of  one  of  Mercy's  hymns-r^ 

"  There  is  beyond  the  sky 
A  heaven  of  joy  and  love : 
And  holy  children,  when  they  die, 
GrO  to  that  world  above  I" 

And  though  her  mother  never  noticed  it  in  words,  yet  did  she 
often  listen  to  the  low  tones  as  Rose  sang  on  to  herself,  listened 
in  fear  lest  the  sweet  words  should  cease ;  but  happily  Rose  ao- 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  327 

quired  the  habit,  till  she  would  begin  and  keep  on  almost  uncon 
8cious]y  to  herself.  Sunday  was  now  a  day  of  rest  indeed,  a  day 
made  holy  and  a  delight  by  the  glad  sounds  of  the  good  tidings 
of  great  joy,  preached  every  Sabbath  in  the  village  church 
I*atience  had  again  found  a  home,  and  the  heart  of  her  mistress 
cherished  for  her  a  deeper  feeling  than  any  that  Patience  had 
known  in  service  before.  With  Rose  it  was  always  pleasant  to 
work,  or  to  speak — and  when  Patience  discovered  the  mutual 
friendship  existing  between  Rose  and  a  variety  of  the  hving 
creatures  upon  the  farm,  Patience  took  pattern,  and  trained  her 
cows  to  an  intelligence  that  seemed  to  give  promise  of  rivalling^ 
in  time,  tl  e  very  horses  themselves ! 

In  the  following  summer,  to  the  delight  of  Rose,  her  Derby- 
shire uncle  and  aunt  and  two  of  her  cousins  came  down,  at  Mrs. 
Smith's  earnest  request,  to  make  a  visit  at  the  farm.  Mrs.  Smith's 
brother  soon  returned  to  his  home,  on  account  of  his  business ; 
but  he  left  his  wife  and  daughters,  who  made  a  stay  of  six  weeks 
— to  the  comfort  and  profit  of  Mrs.  Smith,  the  satisfaction  and 
pleasure  of  farmer  Smith,  and  the  ceaseless  enjoyment  of  Rose. 
This  intercourse  tended  to  raise  and  enlarge  Mrs.  Smith's  already 
softened  and  rightly  directed  feelings.  And  six  weeks  of  so 
much  peaceful  enjoyment  had  never  been  known  before  within 
the  farm. 

William  and  Joe  obtained  an  early  holiday  this  year,  and  to 
their  father's  comfort  and  the  pleasure  of  all,  they  came  down 
for  the  last  fortnight  of  the  harvest-time.  How  merrily  did 
Rose  prepare  the  hai*vest-cakes  the  last  baking  before  their  re- 
turn, obtaining  from  her  mother's  pleased  and  willing  hand  a 
large  supply  of  plums — because  Will  and  Joe  would  be  among 
those  to  be  fed  with  the  harvest-cakes?  And  though  it  was 
four  years  since  William  had  held  a  sickle,  the  reapers  declared 
that  Master  William  might  stand  king  of  them,  for  all  he  had 


328  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

been  up  in  London  so  long !  But  it  was  only  a  foilniglit — and 
the  time  diew  to  its  close.  The  father  had  felt  again  the  comfort 
of  his  eldest  son  at  his  side  in  the  anxiety  and  joy  of  harvest,  and 
hia  spirits  sank  at  the  approaching  separation. 

"  Do  you  see  any  prospect  for  returning  for  good  ?"  asked  the 
father,  a  few  evenings  before  the  last,  as  they  sat  together,  after 
supper — the  young  boys  having  retired  to  rest. 

"  Well,  father,"  said  William,  "  I  should  wish  to  do  what  I  can 
for  my  brothers.  Joe  stands  on  his  own  feet  now :  as  for  Ted  I 
think  I  may  leave  him  to  Joe ;  if  you  and  mother  consent  to  his 
going  to  sea — on  which  he  seems  so  bent — Joe  is  much  more  in 
the  way  than  I  am  of  hearing  of  an  opening  in  that  line.  But 
then  there's  Samson  ;  I  don't  know  what  you  would  wish  about 
him.     I  am  afraid  he  has  not  sfyirit  enough  for  a  farmer  !" 

"  No,"  said  the  father ;  "  but  I  would  sooner  risk  it,  than  have 
you  stay  away  for  him,  till  no  one  knows  when  !" 

"  Well,  I  need  not  do  that,  father ;  for  if  you  thought  he 
would  do  better  in  business,  my  uncle  made  me  an  offer  before  I 
came  down,  to  take  him  on  tiial ;  and  he  might,  I  think,  with 
his  steady  head,  make  a  good  man  of  business.  If  you  liked  him 
to  come  up  to  me  this  Christmas,  I  would  see  the  boy  fairly  into 
his  work,, and  then  in  another  year  I  think  I  might  hope  to  be  a 
farmer  again." 

It  was  agreed  to  give  Samson  leave  to  decide  for  himself  the 
next  day.  William  said  he  could  never  consent  to  bind  down 
his  brother  to  what  he  had  felt  so  much,  unless  he  was  inclined 
for  it  himself ;  and  Mrs.  Smith  said  she  should  be  satisfied  if  the 
boy  made  fiis  own  choice.  So  the  next  morning,  before  separat- 
ing after  breakfast,  the  proposal  was  made  to  Samson.  He  waited 
a  minute  in  grave  consideration,  then  said  with  a  deliberate  tone — 

"  I  should  wish  to  come  and  see  the  place  sometimes ;  but  foi 
the  rest — I  would  as  soon  be  up  there  as  down  here  !"  * 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  329 

Mrs.  Smith  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  tears  started  to  hei 
eyes. 

"  jN'ever  mind,  mother,"  said  William  in  a  low  voice,  "  there's 
many  a  heart  wakes  up  away  from  its  home,  that  lay  fast  asleep 
in  it ! "  But  Mrs.  Smith  made  no  reply  :  she  felt  again  the  reflu- 
ent wave  of  bitter  memory,  reminding  her  how  little  she  had 
done  to  caU  forth  and  bind  the  hearts  of  her  children  to  their 
home — their  mother's  dwelling-place !  Yet  William  seemed  as 
if  he  could  love  no  other — but  it  might  be  only  his  father  and 
the  place  he  cared  for  !  it  was  always  for  his  father  Joe  talked 
of  earning  money  !  little  Tim  had  seemed  uneasy  with  her !  and 
now  Samson  cared  not  whether  he  went  or  stayed !  Oh,  how 
bitterly  around  the  heart  flows  sin's  returning  tide  !  But  then 
back  to  the  mother's  memory  came  the  first  utterance  of  Rose 
on  her  return — the  first  words  half  smothered  by  her  feelings 
"  Mother  !  oh,  mother  !"  and  looking  round,  as  if  to  see  whether 
the  child  who  breathed  them  still  were  her's,  she  met  the  earnest 
eyes  of  Rose — ^bent  in  their  full  and  tenderest  expression  upon 
her,  as  if  only  one  thought  were  in  her  heart,  and  that  one  how 
her  mother  would  bear  the  decision  for  Samson  to  go  !  It  waa 
enough,  the  mother  felt  one  child  to  be  at  least  a  gift  from 
Heaven  to  her — a  gift  most  undeserved  ;  and  her  strengthened 
heart  was  ready  to  endure  in  patience  and  in  hope ;  to  wait  the 
influence  of  better  feelings — now  breathed  and  lived  by  her — on 
all  around.     So  it  was  decided  for  Samson  to  go. 

Ted  had  stood  in  breathless  attention,  while  the  fate  of  his 
brother  was  deciding  :  but  the  moment  it  was  fixed  for  Samson 
to  go,  and  farmer  Smith  had  taken  his  hat  and  hastened  out 
to  his  men,  Ted  exclaimed,  "And  what's  going  to  be  done 
with  me  ?  I  mean  to  go  to  sea  !  Joe  said  he  would  find  me  a 
ship,  and  if  he  does  not,  I"  shall  just  run  away  and  find  one  foi 
myself  f 


330  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Heyday !"  answered  William,  "  I  shall  look  after  Rover's  old 
:nain !     How  do  you  think  you  are  to  climb  a  mast  ?" 

"  I  will  just  show  you !"  said  Ted,  springing  into  his  tall 
brother's  arms,  then  on  his  shoulder,  his  merry  face  looking  down 
at  his  brother's,  as  he  asked,  "  Is  not  that  something  like  it  ?" 

"  Well  done  !"  answered  William,  "  but  there  are  no  friendly 
arms  on  ship-board,  I  warn  you  !" 

"  Just  you  come  off,  then,"  said  Ted,  "  and  see  me  climb  the 
betrn-roof — I  can  do  it  all  over !  And  if  you  and  father  don't 
find  me  a  ship,  I  will  find  one  for  myself!" 

"  I  tell  you  what,  my  little  man,"  said  WiUiam,  stopping  sud- 
denly short,  as  Ted  was  leading  him  to  the  barn,  "  I  shall  not 
go  a  step  further,  nor  see  you  climb,  till  you  have  listened  to 
me."  So  sitting  down  on  a  cart-shaft  that  rested  on  the  ground, 
he  made  a  prisoner  of  the  impatient  boy,  and  began  his  dis- 
course. 

"  Now,  Ted,  I  tell  you  what,  if  you  talk  so  I  shall  expect  to 
hear  that  you  fall  down  from  the  barn-roof  and  kill  yourself, 
before  ever  you  see  your  ship  !" 

"  Well,  but  I  want  to  go  to  sea, — and  father  said  I  should, — 
and  father  never  said  Samson  was  to  go  to  London, — ^yet  he  is  to 
go,  and  I  am  not  1" 

"  I  would  not  have  Samson  in  London  if  I  could  not  trust 
him,"  replied  William  ;  "  and  if  you  were  only  a  runaway — who 
would  trust  you  ?  You  must  try  to  earn  a  ship,  and  then  I  have 
not  the  least  doubt  but  we  shall  find  you  one,  and  then  you  will 
go  on  board  to  serve  like  a  man,  and  not  like  a  runaway  slave !" 

"  But  why  may  I  not  go  now  ?  I  can  never  earn  it,  so  it  is 
not  any  use  to  try ;  and  I  can  climb  well  enough,  and  that 's  all 
a  sailor  wants  to  know." 

"  Yes,  but  you  can  earn  it,  and  you  will  not  be  happy  in  it  if 
you  do  not  earn  it,"  said  William. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  881 

**How  can  I  earn  it  ?" 

"  By  trying  to  do  your  duty  now — being  a  comfort  wliile  yon 
are  at  home ;  and  learning  all  you  possibly  can  to  make  you 
worth  taking  on  board  ship." 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  can  climb — and  that  is  all  a  sailor  wants  to 
know." 

"  If  you  think  so,  you  are  very  much  mistaken ;  and  it  is  a 
very  happy  thing  for  you  that  the  ship  is  not  yet  ijing  in  the 
harbor  waiting  for  you." 

"  Why,  what  do  I  want  to  know  more  than  climbing  ?" 

"  What  ?  why,  a  sailor  ought  to  know  as  many  things  as  any 
one !  The  very  first  voyage  you  go  you  may  be  wrecked  on 
some  uninhabited  island,  and  what  use  would  you  be  then  to 
yourself  or  to  any  one  ? — Nothing  better  than  a  poor  helpless 
child !  You  must  set  to  and  learn  the  use  of  your  hands  for. 
something  more  than  cUmbing — a  monkey  can  do  that  better 
than  you  already !  but  you  hope  to  be  a  man,  and  I  hope  so  too, 
and  you  must  begin  to  act  like  one,  and  then  I  shall  begin  to 
think  we  may  look  out  for  your  ship." 

"  But,  Will,  what  must  I  learn  ?" 

"  Why,  go  off  to  Lewis,  the  basket-maker  in  the  next  village, 
and  get  him  to  teach  you  how  to  twist  the  willow  withes,  and 
don't  you  give  over  till  you  can  make  mother  a  basket  strong 
enough  to  send  her  eggs  to  market  in.  And  then  get  old  mastei 
Newsom  to  teach  you  carpentering ;  and  help  him  make  hi 
wheels,  and  his  barrows,  and  his  carts.  And  then  you  must  take 
to  thatching,  and  learn  how  to  bind  a  roof  in  dry — before  you 
reckon  yourself  all  ready  for  a  life  that  may  cast  and  leave  you 
any  where !  And  I  advise  you  these  next  winier  evenings,  to 
get  Rose  to  teach  you  how  to  work  with  a  needle." 

"  So  I  will !  and  then,  William,  I  can  go  to  old  Dawson,  I 
know  there's  plenty  of  room  for  me  at  his  stall,  and  I  will  be  a 


832  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

cobbler,  and  mend  and  make  shoes,  wbat  fim!  I  will  make 
haste  and  learn  every  thing !" 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  replied  WiDlam,  "and  then  think  of  what 
use  you  might  be !  Why,  you  v^^ould  be  the  last  man  to  be 
parted  with,  if  you  were  of  use  for  every  thing — ^what  a  busy, 
happy  life  you  might  lead !  And  then,  Ted,  do  you  think  I 
have  told  you  all  you  would  want  to  know  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Ted,  looking  up,  at  William's  earnest 
tone. 

"  What  if  there  came  a  storm  at  sea,  and  the  ship  went  down, 
and  you  went  down  to  the  bottom  with  it  ?  do  you  think  your 
spirit  would  rise,  like  a  little  diver,  and  know  its  way  to  the 
Holy  Heaven — where  Tim  has  gone  to  dwell  ?" 

"Did  Tim  know  the  way?"  asked  Ted. 

"  Yes,  don't  you  remember  how  he  loved  to  pr^y,  and  to  learn 
and  repeat  the  texts  and  hymns  Rose  taught  him,  which  told  of 
Jesus  who  is  the  way  to  Heaven?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,"  answered  Ted. 

"  Then  don't  you  think  you  will  want  to  know  as  much  as 
little  Tim  knew,  before  you  go  on  those  great  deep  waters  ? 
And  suppose  you  should  find  poor  sailor  boys,  or  men,  who 
don't  know  the  way  to  Heaven — you  could  teach  them ;  and 
that  knowledge  would  be  the  best  of  all,  both  for  yourself  and 
others." 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  it  might,"  replied  Ted,  "  but  I  don't  see  that 
I  can  learn  that." 

"  Not  of  yourself  alone,  but  if  you  really  try  to  learn,  God 
will  teach  you  both  to  know  and  to  love  it.  Little  Tim  learned 
from  Rose ;  would  you  like  to  go  and  see  our  Curate  with  me, 
and  for  me  to  ask  him  to  take  you  into  his  class  of  boys,  that 
you  may  learn  that  knowledge  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  should  not  mind  that.'^ 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  339 

**  Very  well,  then,  we  will  go ;  and  I  think  by  when  we  have 
bund  the  ship  you  will  be  ready  for  it — with  knowledge  to 
flake  you  happy  j'ourself,  and  a  comfort  and  blessing,  I  trust,  to 
•  thers." 

William  returned  with  Joe  to  London,  leaving  Ted  full  of 
/pirit  for  his  trades;  and  received  under  the  Curate's  care  to 
'earn  that  which  hath  the  promise,  not  only  of  the  life  that  nox^ 
tjs,  but  of  that  which  is  to  come.  Ted  inherited  his  mother's 
energy,  and  being  a  general  favorite,  he  found  little  difficulty 
11  persuading  the  village  tradespeople  to  teach  him  something 
rf  their  skill — some  idea  how  their  work  was  done,  and  their 
t  x)ls  handled ;  besides,  a  refusal  was  not  very  easily  given  to  one 
V  ho  had  no  idea  of  taking  it.  The  Curate,  in  his  walk  through 
the  village,  would  see  his.  little  scholar  busy  at  the  wheelwright's 
side ;  or  look  down  upon  his  merry  face  in  the  cobbler's  stall — 
intent  with  earnest  gravity  on  mending  some  worn-out  boot 
Samson  went  to  London  at  Christmas :  and  so  passed  away  the 
dllage  winter. 

Old  Willy's  health  had  long  been  visibly  declining;  there 
were  those  who  thought. the  old  man  would  not  see  another 
ipring,  and  not  without  reason — ^for  in  the  frost  of  Febmaiy  he 
took  to  his  bed,  from  which  he  never  rose  again.  Widow  Jones 
tras  his  nurse,  Mercy  his  comfort,  and  Jem  his  earthly  stay  and 
dependence.  Rose  was  often  sent  by  her  mother  with  some- 
thing warai  from  the  farm ;  and  Mrs.  Smith  herself  was  not 
seldom  seen  making  her  way  to  the  old  man's  cottage.  Ted,  to 
his  own  perfect  satisfaction,  had  soled  a  pair  of  old  Willy's  boots, 
for  which  Dawson,  the  cobbler,  said  nothing  was  to  be  paid, 
because  the  work  was  none  of  his;  so  Ted  carried  them  home 
and  set  them  down  close  by  old  Willy's  bed — ^ready  for  him  as 
Boon  as  he  might  be  able  to  get  up ;  and  from  time  to  time  the 
ministering  boy  looked  in  to  see  whether  the  old  man  had  yet 


834  MlNIbTERINtl     CHILr.REN". 

made  tria.  of  the  first  completed  effort  of  liis  sldll.  But  old 
Willy  had  trod  the  rough  path  of  the  world  to  its  end ;  he  had 
put  off  his  shoes  from  his  feet,  and  he  needed  to  be  shod  no  more, 
save  with  the  preparation  of  the  Gospel  of  peace — which  time 
and  use,  so  far  from  impairing,  can  only  serve  to  strengthen  on 
the  heavenward  pilgrim's  feet. 

At  the  approach  of  spring,  notice  arrived  at  the  Hall,  of  the 
return  of  Mrs.  Clifford  and  the  young  Squire,  and  immediate 
preparations  were  made.  A  request  was  sent  that  there  should 
be  no  demonstration  of  joy  on  their  return ;  it  was  to  be  as  quiet 
and  private  as  possible.  The  servants  were  to  be  arrayed  in  the 
garb  of  mourning ;  and  every  circumstance  to  mark  the  event, 
not  as  a  family  return,  but  as  that  of  the  widow  and  her  father- 
less son.  The  day  was  not  made  known,  in  order  more  effect- 
ually to  prevent  an  assembling  of  the  people.  Jem  now  watched 
with  anxious  impatience  and  fear,  lest  the  fast-waning  life  of 
old  Willy  should  depart  before  his  long-cherished  wish  had  been 
granted — to  see  his  young  master  again !  Widow  Jones  and 
Mercy  had  for  some  time  kept  watch  by  day,  and  Jem  slept  in 
old  Willy's  room  by  night.  And  still  the  feeble  lamp  of  life 
burned  dimly  on  with  that  old  man — as  if  no  outward  circum- 
stance now  affected  its  slow  and  gentle  expiring.  Widow  Jones 
and  Mercy  were  in  the  cottage,  when  at  the  sound  of  carriage- 
wheels  Mercy  ran  to  the  door ;  it  was  a  traveling  carriage,  and 
there  could  be  little  doubt  that  it  was  on  its  way  to  the  Hall,  but 
no  one  was  visible  within,  no  one  looked  out  as  it  swiftly  passed 
i)j  old  Willy's  door.  Could  it  be  the  young  Squire  and  the 
Lady  of  the  Hall  ?  Yes,  Jem,  when  he  came  in  the  evening, 
brought  word  that  it  was  said  in  the  village  they  had  arrived. 
Widow  Jones  had  sat  up  through  the  previous  night,  and  Jem 
was  to  keep  watch  through  the  first  hours  of  this — till  his  mother 
should  come,  after  necessary  rest,  to  relieve  him.     The  evening 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  335 

closed  in,  Jem  drew  the  little  window-curtain,  lighted  the  candle^ 
and  opening  the  old  man's  Bible  sat  down  to  read.  But  he 
found  it  difficult  to  stay  his  thoughts  on  the  sacred  page,  hia 
mind  was  full  of  the  young  Squire's  return — would  he  be  alto- 
gether changed  ?  Jem  feared  it  must  be  likely  he  wcoild — away 
so  long,  and  in  foreign  parts,  he  could  hardly  return  the  same ! 
Yet  Jem  believed  the  good  were  not  given  to  change,  he  had 
heard  his  mother  say  so  when  he  was  a  child ;  and  surely  the 
young  Sqiiire  was  good  if  ever  any  were !  so  it  might  be  he 
would  prove,  still  the  same.  Then  rose  the  question,  would  old 
Willy  know  him  if  he  came  to  see  him  ?  Was  there  conscious- 
ness enough  still  left  for  the  old  man  to  know  his  hope  fulfilled  ? 
And  Jem  looked  round  on  old  Willy  in  anxious  inquiry.  While 
thought  was  thus  busy  within,  he  heard  a  knock  at  the  door  \ 
then  a  hand,  to  whom  its  latch  seemed  familiar,  opened  it ;  and 
and  a  stranger  gentleman  looked  in ;  Jem  started  up,  but  in  a 
moment  he  knew  the  face,  he  knew  the  friendly  smile,  he  knew 
the  form,  yes,  he  knew  the  very  hand  that  was  raised  to  silence 
his  exclamation  and  then  extended  to  him !  Jem  bowed  his  low- 
est bow,  then  took  the  offered  hand,  and  grasped  it  in  both  of 
his,  while  such  a  light  of  sudden  joy  sufi'used  his  countenance 
that  words  were  little  needed.  Laying  his  hat  on  the  table,  the 
young  Squire  turned  to  the  bed  where  the  old  man  lay  with  his 
eyes  closed  as  if  in  slumber.  He  stood  and  looked  on  him  in 
silence.  Oh  then  what  a  wave  from  memory's  sea  overflowed 
his  heart!  the  past,  the  long  past  became  present  again — he 
thought  of  his  dream,  and  as  vividly  as  then  in  his  sleep  did  he 
now  seem  to  see  the  bright  angel  who  watched  over  the  old 
man — the  heir  of  glory.  He  thought  of  that  time  when  hig 
work  of  love  was  net  even  begun,  he  remembered  how  hard  that 
work  had  seemed  at  first — then  how  pleasant ;  how  the  difficulty 
Rgain  grew  worse  thar  before — then  brightened  into  joy.     And 


336  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

with  that  remembrance  came  the  thought  of  his  father-  -how 
he  had  met  him  in  his  childhood's  feehngs  and  made  him  posses- 
sor of  the  home  where  old  Willy  dwelt — the  recollection  of  all 
passed  before  him,  till  he  wiped  away  his  starting  tears,  and 
turned  round  to  Jem,  saying  softly,  "  He  sleeps !" 

"No,  sir,"  Jem  replied,  "  I  doubt  if  he  does ;  he  hes  mostly  in 
that  quiet  way— as  if  his  doings  with  Earth  were  all  over,  and  we 
don't  disturb  him  except  for  his  food.  But  I  will  just  speak  to 
him  now,  if  you  please,  sir,  for  he  has  longed  sore  to  see  you,  and 
maybe  he  will  still  have  the  knowledge  to  understand  that." 

Jem  went  to  the  pillow,  and  stooping  above  it,  said  gently, 
"  Daddy,  look  up  !  I  say,  daddy,  look  up  and  see  who  has  come 
to  you  here !" 

The  old  man  looked  up,  the  voice  had  aroused  him  and  called 
up  his  half-slumbering  senses.  Herbert  knelt  down  before  him ; 
and  the  eye  of  the  old  man  fell  on  him,  and  he  gazed  with  that 
long  earnest  look  that  the  departing  spirit  seems  to  cast  back 
from  a  still  lengthening  distance — its  last  glance  through  those 
eyes  that  have  been  its  earthly  portals  of  vision.  The  old  man 
gazed  on  Herbert,  but  he  did  not  speak.  It  might  be  he  thought 
himself  lost  in  some  dream  of  a  hope  yet  unfulfilled ;  howevei 
it,  might  be,  the  old  man  gave  no  sign  of  recognition — save  thai 
fixed,  earnest  look  on  the  face  that  now,  after  long  years,  was  be 
tore  him.  Herbert  in  that  sacred  moment  felt  afraid  by  the  namo 
BO  familiar  to  appeal  to  the  old  man — who  seemed  so  calmly  de 
parting ;  afraid  to  bring  back  before  him  the  dim  visions  of 
Earth,  when  he*  was  just  landing  in  Heaven.  So  he  thought  of 
tre  words  that  old  Willy  most  loved,  and  said  in  his  clear, 
St  ^.ened  tone,  "  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled ;  ye  believe  in 
God,  believe  also  in  me.  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  man- 
sions :  if  it  were  not  so,  I  would  have  told  you.  I  go  to  prepare 
I  place  for  you.    And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for  you,  I  wUJ 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  337 

come  again  and  receive  you  unto  myself;  that  where  [  am,  there 
ye  may  be  also."  The  old  man's  dying  ear  caught  the  joyful 
sound ;  he  listened  with  clasped  hands  and  eyes  upraised,  while 
Herbert  thus  performed  for  him  the  last  sacred  ministry  his  spirit 
needed  on  Earth.  There  was  silence  again,  and  the  old  man 
seemed  to  muse  on  the  words  he  had  heard.  Then,  as  if  waking 
afresh,  he  looked  up  to  Jem,  who  still  stood  beside  him,  and 
called,  in  his  feeble  tone  and  words  of  endearment,  "  Jem,  my 
poor  boy !"  Jem  stooped  to  his  pillow  again,  and  the  old  man 
said,  "  I  have  seen  him !  he  is  grown  up  to  a  heavenly  man !  and 
he  spoke  those  same  words  from  my  Book  that  he  had  read  me 
often  and  often  before.  I  knew  him,  for  the  voice  was  his  own !" 
There  Herbert  still  knelt — by  the  side  of  the  bed,  but  the  old 
man  had  ceased  to  discern  him,  his  dim  eyes  now  failed  him. 
Then  Herbert  rose  up,  and  taking  his  seat  on  the  bed  he  leaned 
over  old  Willy,  and  laid  his  hand  softly  on  the  old  man's,  and 
said,  "  Willy,  dear  old  Willy,  your  young  master  's  here !  I  am 
he  !  don't  you  know  me  ?" 

Then  the  old  man  wept,  and  raising  his  hand,  as  had  been  his 
custom  when  feeling  overpowered  him,  he  said,  "  It  is  granted 
then!  my  young  master 's  come  !"  And  looking  through  his 
tears  to  where  Herbert  sat  before  him,  he  said  with  calmer 
utterance,  "  I  have  waited  for  you !  I  knew  you  would  come ! 
and  now  I  have  seen  you,  I  am  ready  to  go.  I  heard  those 
sweet  words  you  spoke  from  my  Book,  and  they  have  lifted  me 
up  to  those  mansions  above.  I  am  now  at  the  door,  I  shall  soon 
be  gone  in,  and  you  will  come  to  me  there !  You  have  sheltered 
me  here,  I  have  not  known  a  want !  but  the  good  Lord  above 
lias  sent  for  me  home.  His  angels  are  come,  but  He  would  let 
me  stay  till  I  had  my  last  wish — to  see  you  once  more.  Will 
you  care  for  my  Jem  ?  and  please  let  him  have  my  Book  to  show 
him  the  way ;  and  the  coat  that  you  brought  me — ^it  will  serve 

16 


S.'iS  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

him  for  years.  And  when  I  am  gone,  let  them  lay  nr  e  tc  rest 
at  the  feet  of  my  lady ;  I  have  stood  at  the  foot  of  her  tomb  in 
winter  and  summer,  I  went  there  most  days  to  look  where  she 
lay,  and  'tis  there  I  would  lie — where  I  always  have  stood  to  keep 
watch  over  her.  I  know  that  the  angels  keep  sight  of  her  gra\'e, 
and  they  '11  watch  over  me — whom  she  taught  the  way  to  Heaven 
where  they  dwell.  She  is  sure  to  see  me  when  I  enter  in— with 
robes  all  washed  white  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb !  She  will 
know  then  how  fast  in  my  heart  I  have  kept  the  Name  of  my 
Saviour;  long  nights  as  I  lie  here,  I  still  say  to  myself,  'Jesus, 
my  Saviour,  Lord  Jesus,  my  God  1'  and  it  keeps  me  so  close  by 
the  Heavenly  gate  that  I  have  only  been  waiting  for  you!  I 
leave  you  my  blessing,  dear  young  master,  God  grant  you  may 
know  what  the  blessing  of  the  poor  man  can  be  ;  't  is  the  God  up 
above  who  makes  the  poor's  blessing  rich,  and  with  my  dying 
prayer  I  commend  you  to  him." 

Herbert  had  already  bowed  his  head  on  the  old  man's  hand, 
which  his  own  hand  still  held  ;  and,  at  his  parting  blessing,  the 
old  man  raised  again  his  other  hand  in  act  of  prayer,  then  spent 
with  the  effort,  it  fell  by  his  side,  and  he  seemed  to  repose. 
Herbert  at  length  rose,  and  spoke  softly  with  Jem,  and  would 
have  sent  further  assistance  to  watch  through  the  night,  but  Jem 
said  his  mother  had  had  already  some  hours  of  rest,  and  would 
be  there  by  midnight,  and  he  would  rather  be  alone  till  then. 
So  Herbert  returned  to  the  Hall ;  but  a  servant  soon  arrived  at 
the  cottage  bringing  warm  cordials  ;  Jem  again  roused  the  old 
man,  to  take  some,  and  he  well  understood  who  had  sent  the 
warm  cordials  for  him  !  then  turning  again  to  rest  on  his  pillow, 
he  «lept.  Jem  watched  by  him  there,  while  his  breathing  be- 
came stiller,  till  it  ceased ;  and  Jem — ^watching  beside  him — 
knew  not  when  he  died. 

Herbert  called  at  the  cottage  again  the  next  day,  and  looked 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  339 

on  tlie  smile  that  still  lingered  on  the  lips  of  the  departetl.  Jem 
was  away  at  the  farm,  but  Widow  Jones  and  Mercy  were  there. 
Widow  Jones  took  from  a  drawer  a  small  bag  of  money,  saying 
to  Herbert,  "  I  made  my  promise  to  the  old  man,  sir,  that  I  would 
give  that  for  his  burying ;  he  said  he  considered  it  was  right  that 
he  should  make  a  provision  for  that." 

"  Keep  it  then  for  yourself,"  replied  Herbert ;  "  I  shall  lay  him 
to  his  rest." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  am  sure,"  replied  Widow  Jones,  "  but  if  you 
won't  be  offended,  sir,  I  could  not  be  satisfied  to  take  it,  because 
he  had  laid  it  all  by,  and  I  promised  him  to  give  it  for  that." 

"  Then  let  me  have  it,"  said  Herbert,  "  and  I  will  send  it  for 
Bibles  to  be  given  in  Heathen  lands — ^that  was  what  lay  nearest 
his  heart,  and  so  in  that  way  his  own  money  shall  embalm  him  !" 

The  winter's  rain  was  over  and  gone,  the  flowers  had  appeared 
on  the  Earth,  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds  was  come,  and  the 
voice  of  the  turtle  was  heard  in  the  land — ^then  it  was  they  bore 
the  old  man's  body  to  its  rest.  Herbert  walked  on  one  side  of 
the  coffin,  and  Jem  on  the  other,  and  the  village  mourners  fol- 
lowed. They  had  dug  the  old  man's  grave,  at  the  young  Squire's 
direction,  across  the  foot  of  the  lady's  tomb,  and  there,  with  the 
words  of  blessing  and  the  tears  of  affection,  they  laid  him  to  his 
rest.  Herbert  lingered  the  last — Jem  waiting  near,  at  his  desire ; 
Herbert  spoke  not  of  the  past,  but  it  rose  in  fresh  remembrance 
before  him  ;  till  at  last,  turning  slowly  away  from  the  hallowed 
spot,  he  descended  the  hill  in  heavenly  converse  with  Jem.  The 
cottage  was  shut  up,  the  young  Squire  kept  the  key,  and  the 
dwelling  mourned  for  three  months,  in  desolation,  the  life  it  had 
sheltered  from  birth,  a»d  now  lost  from  its  shelter  for  ever. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

"  Ready  to  give  thanks  and  live 
On  the  least  that  Heaven  may  give." 

"Godliness  with  contentment  Is  great  gain." — 1  Tim.  vl  6. 

"XTTE  must  return  for  our  last  visit  to  the  town,  and  take  a  final 
' '  leave  of  the  childhood  of  little  Jane.  She  had  grown  what 
her  father  called  "  a  great  girl ;"  she  went  daily,  alone,  to  a  good 
school  in  the  town ;  and  was  often  useful  to  her  mother  in  the 
errands  she  could  do  for  her.  She  still  looked  upon  Widow  Jones 
and  her  granddaughter  Mercy,  the  old  people  in  the  almshouse, 
and  the  lone  old  woman  on  the  heath,  as  her  particular  friends ; 
and  now  a  whole  family  were  to  be  added  to  the  number.  Jane 
heard  of  a  poor  old  man  in  the  town,  a  cobbler  by  trade,  but 
scarcely  able  to  earn  bread  for  his  family.  He  had  been  a  shep- 
herd on  the  very  heath  where  Jane's  old  woman  lived ;  but  he 
was  obliged  to  give  up  keeping  sheep,  and  now  he  earned  his 
food  by  mending  shoes.  Jane  heard  that  he  was  as  happy  as  he 
was  poor :  and  she  thought  how  delightful  it  would  be  to  help  him. 
So  she  told  her  mother  all  she  had  heard ;  and  asked  if  she  might 
not  go  herself,  and  take  her  own  boots  to  be  mended  by  him. 

Mrs.  Mansfield  replied,  "  Yes,  you  may  take  them  if  you  Uke, 
and  tell  the  poor  man  to  mend  them  up  for  giving  away ;  he 
will  be  able  then  to  do  them  in  a  stronger  way  and  for  less  money, 
or  I  should  not  think  them  worth  doing  at  all.  But  are  y  }v 
eure  you  know  exactly  the  place  where  he  lives  ?" 


MINISTERINJ     CHILDREN.  341 

"  0  yes,  mamma,  I  know  it  exactly !  I  liave  been  and  looked 
down  at  it ;  only  I  would  not  go  without  your  leave."  So  Jane 
set  forth  with  her  boots  in  a  little  basket,  and  in  her  pocket  a 
purse  that  had  for  some  days  held  a  piece  of  silver.  Eager,  rich, 
and  happy  went  the  ministering  child,  ghding  through  the  busy 
streets  of  the  town  !  Her's  was  the  joyous  sense  of  powjer — how 
easily  taught,  how  easily  learned,  and  yet  how  often  unthought 
o^  unknown  !  She  had  love  in  her  heart,  work  in  her  hand,  and 
money  in  her  purse — what  could  she  not  do !  One  thing  was 
certain — she  could  help  and  comfort ;  and  strong,  and  bright,  and 
fearless  in  this  undoubting  faith  she  hastened  on.  She  reached 
at  last  the  narrow  door  at  the  top  of  the  steep  flight  of  steps  that 
led  to  the  little  court  where  the  cobbler  dwelt.  Jane  stopped  a 
moment,  looked  down  into  the  strange  place,  then  carefully 
descended  the  steep  steps,  made  of  red  uneven  bricks,  and  edged 
with  rotting  wood,  till  she  arrived  in  safety  at  the  bottom.  The 
cobbler's  dwelling  was  No.  2,  and  at  the  second  cottage  before 
her  Jane  noticed  the  clean-washed  bricks  before  the  door — ^it 
looked  like  the  entrance  to  a  good  man's  dwelling.  Jane  gath- 
ered fresh  pleasure  at  the  sight,  but  now  the  shyness  of  a  stranger 
came  over  her,  and  she  knocked  with  some  trembling  at  the  door. 
A  tall  woman  in  a  brown  calico  gown  opened  it,  with  a  snow- 
white  handkerchief  under  her  partly-opened  gown,  a  cap  of  thick 
muslin  as  white,  and  her  sick-looking  face,  almost  as  white  also. 

"  Does  Mr.  May  live  here  ?"  asked  Jane. 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  the  woman,  with  a  curt'sy ; '"  will  you  please 
to  walk  in  ?"  And  Jane  entered  as  neat  a  little  dwelling  as  ever 
met  a  visitor's  eye.  A  very  small  fire  a  few  inches  wide  and 
deep,  burned  in  the  grate ;  over  the  fire  was  a  high  black  mantle- 
piece  ;  on  one  side  of  the  fireplace  was  a  black  closet-door,  and 
on  the  other  another  black  door  leading  up  stairs ;  the  walls 
were  white\^  ashed,  and  one   little  book-shelf  suspended  upon 


842  MINISTERING    CHILDREN. 

them,  with  a  small  store  of  books  in  neatest  order.  There  was  a 
long  hutch  opposite  the  fire,  and  on  it  a  store  of  large  new-baked 
loaves ;  the  floor  was  neatly  sanded,  and  before  the  large  lattice- 
window  stood  the  cobbler's  low  stall — not  even  a  straggling 
leather  or  tool  had  escaped  from  it,  to  litter  the  brick  floor ;  and 
before  it  sat  the  small  old  man  on  a  low  round  stool  of  homely- 
manufacture,  with  his  apron  tied  roimd  him,  busy  at  work.  Two 
daughters  rose  up  at  Jane's  entrance,  and  the  old  cobbler  took 
his  spectacles  from  his  nose  and  looked  round.  Jane  turned  at 
once  to  him,  and  said,  "  I  have  brought  a  pair  of  boots,  which 
mamma  thought  you  might  like  to  mend,  and  I  was  to  tell  you 
that  they  were  to  be  done  for  giving  away." 

"  Thank  you,  miss,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  cobbler ;  "  it 's  well  to 
know  that,  because  you  see  then  a  patch  outside,  here  and  there, 
does  not  signify,  and  that 's  a  deal  less  trouble  to  do,  and  lasts  all 
the  longer — because  it  don't  wear  out  the  old  leather,  like  so  many 
stitches  as  you  must  set  into  it  for  that  fine  particular  mending 
that  must  be  done  for  gentlefolks."  The  old  cobbler  had  risen  up, 
and  did  not  begin  his  response  to  the  message  till  Jane  was  seat- 
ed, so  that  Jane  listened  with  a  settled  feehng  to  his  long  reply, 
which  gave  her  complete  satisfaction,  as  she  had  not  quite  liked 
to  say  they  were  to  be  mended  for  giving  away !  But  she  thought 
now  how  wise  her  mother  was — who  must  have  known  all  that 
when  she  gave  her  the  message !  Though  only  a  child  had  en- 
tered, the  mother  and  daughters  still  stood,  and  Jane,  uncomfort- 
able at  that,  said,  "  I  may  stay  a  little  while,  if  you  are  not  busy, 
and  can  sit  down  ?"  upon  which  they  were  all  seated.  The  old 
cobbler  had  fastened  his  spectacles  again  on  his  nose,  and  was 
busy  at  his  work ;  but  he  seemed  to  feel  the  responsibihty  of  en- 
tertaining their  guest  rested  with  him,  so  he  lost  no  time  in  going 
on  to  say,  "  It 's  a  comfort,  that  many  can  little  think,  to  see 
work  come  in  at  the  door ;  for  to  sit  here  and  earn  the  food  one 


p.  Ui. 


MIlilSTSRING     CHILDREN.  343 

eats  mjikes  it  seem  to  be  doubly  sweet*  and  I  believe  too  that  it 
does  do  you  more  good,  for  I  believe  that  s  tne  order  God  has 
written  upon  this  world — that  the  bread  of  idleress  shall  do  none 
the  same  good !  And  I  am  sure,"  said  the  cobbler,  looking  round, 
as  he  did  for  a  moment  at  frequent  intervals  of  his  discourse,  "  I 
am  sure,  miss,  we  are  thankful  to  you  for  the  bringing  it." 

"  I  liked  to  come,"  answered  Jane,  "  I  heard  that  your  wife 
was  ill." 

"  Well,  miss,"  replied  the  cobbler,  looking  round  kindly  at  his 
wife  for  a  moment,  "  she  is  nfever  well.  I  do  what  I  can,  but  one 
pair  of  hands  can  hardly  keep  four  in  food  and  clothing  and 
house-rent,  by  shoe-mending.  And  she  has  been  sickly  now  a 
long  time.  But,  as  I  say,  we  do  what  we  can,  and  there  's  the 
comfort  of  knowing  that  the  trial  is  the  will  of  the  Lord.  My 
poor  girls  there,"  the  cobbler  went  on  to  say,  "  would  be  thankful 
to  do  what  they  could,  but  the  Lord  has  not  blessed  them  with 
the  sense  he  has  given  to  some ;  but  still  I  say,  if  He  be  gra- 
ciously pleased  to  keep  them  from  evil,  and  teach  them  the 
knowledge  of  Himself,  why  that 's  mercy  enough  to  keep  from 
fretting  about  the  other.  My  poor  boy  is  much  the  same,  but  lie 
has  got  a  place,  and  I  hope  he  may  keep  it,  for  it  brings  in  a 
little."  Jane  looked  at  the  daughters,  clean  and  neat  as  their 
mother,  and  almost  as  pale ;  they  sat  upright  on  chairs  by  the 
wall,  and  the  unexpressive  stare  of  their  large  round  eyes  gave 
evidence  of  some  want  of  sense  within.  The  father's  face  was 
very  like  his  children's,  except  that  in  his  eyes  and  on  his  lips 
isras  a  smile  as  bright  as  a  sunbeam  ;  and  the  whole  expression 
of  his  face  when  speaking,  was  of  one  in  earthly  want  already 
in-adiated  with  heavenly  faith. 

"  Can  youi  daughters  do  needle-work  ?"  asked  Jane. 

"  Yes,  miss,  they  can  sew  very  neatly,  when  they  can  get  it 
tc  do ;  and  the .  eldest  has  been  in  a  place,  but  she  had  not  the 


S44  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

strength  to  keep  it.  I  hope,  however,  she  may  get  the  better  of 
it  again,  and  look  for  another  situation  before  long,  for  it 's  try- 
ing to  sit  at  home  when  there  is  not  work  or  food ;  but,  thank 
God,  we  have  managed  as  yet,  and  we  would  do  any  thing  we 
could  to  keep  the  house  and  home  together." 

"  You  have  bread  now !"  said  Jane,  in  a  tone  half  expressive 
of  her  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  the  large  loaves  on  the  hutch,  and 
half  inquiringly  as  to  the  reality  of  the  fact. 

"  O  yes,  miss,-  and  I  don't  know  that  we  have  ever  been  a  daj 
altogether  -wdthout.  That  bread  that  you  see  will  all  wait  for  a 
fortnight.  We  always  bake  one  fortnight  under  another ;  that 's 
a  rule  we  never  break  when  we  can  possibly  buy  the  flour,  for  no 
one  would  believe  the  difference  it  makes — how  far  a  httle  bread 
will  go  to  satisfy  your  hunger,  when  once  it  begins  to  turn  moldy. 
My  wife  can  show  you  our  bread  now  ;  we  are  now  beginning  the 
last  fortnight's,  and  that  must  hold  out,  or  we  should  never  be 
able  to  manage  at  all."  All  this  was  said  in  the  earnest  cheerful 
tone  of  one  who  had  discovered  a  fortunate  secret  of  suflSciency, 
while  the  wife  and  daughters  removed  the  hot  loaves,  lifted  up 
the  hutch,  and  showed  the  hard-looking  bread  now  coming  into 
use,  Jane  was  distressed,  it  was  a  study  in  poverty  new  to  her, 
and  the  thought  of  this  constant  denial  of  pleasant  food  fell  more 
heavily  on  her  heart  than  would  the  knowledge  of  the  occasional 
want  of  bread — a  want,  the  experience  of  which  she  never  knew, 
and  therefore  the  suffering  of  which  she  would  not  fully  have 
realized.  The  cobbler  through  his  spectacles  read  the  look  of 
distress  on  the  face  of  Jane,  and  in  a  moment  turning  his  quick 
bright  glance  from  his  low  stool  again  upon  her,  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  cheerful  comfort,  "  There 's  no  riches  promised  us  here, 
if  we  be  the  Lord's ;  only  the  riches  of  feith  and  the  riches  of 
His  blessing — and  thanks  be  to  Him,  we  have  that ;  so  we  can 
Bay,  He  is  faithful  that  promised !     And  't  is  my  belief  there  'a 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  346 

nothing  makes  tlie  true  nches  increase  so  fast  as  trial  does :  so 
we  must  beware  liow  we  fret  at  the  one,  lest  we  lose  our  best 
gain  of  the  other  along  with  it !"  Jane  looked  at  the  beaming 
face  of  the  cobbler,  with  its  kind  and  lingering  expression  of 
inquiry  on  her,  as  if  to  see  whether  he  had  removed  the  cloud  he 
had  cast  over  her,  and  she  thought  she  had  never  seen  any  one 
look  so  happy  as  that  poor  man ;  and  her  heart  grew  warm 
again  in  the  sunshine  of  liis  faith — for  the  sudden  shock  of  what 
she  heard  about  the  bread  had  chilled  her  with  distress. 

"  Are  you  never  unhappy  because  you  have  not  better  food  ?" 
asked  Jane. 

•"  Well,  miss,  trouble  is  always  ready  enough  to  spring  up  ;  it 's 
got  its  root  in  my  heart,  and  so  it  will  have  as  long  as  there 's 
any  sin  there  for  it  to  grow  in,  but,  blessed  be  God,  I  know  what 
to  do  with  it.  I  never  let  it  hold  up  its  head  long.  I  take  it 
right  away  to  our  Saviour  in  prayer,  and  I  leave  it  with  Him,  for 
I  believe  he  knows  better  than  I  do  how  to  manage  with  it ;  and 
80  sure  as  I  persevere  in  doing  that,  it  comes  right  in  the  end,  or 
I  come  right  out  of  it." 

Jane  listened,  and  she  loved  to  listen,  for  that  old  man's  faith 
was  truly  making  sunshine  in  the  cloud  of  his  deep  poverty.  But 
now  she  began  to  think  that  perhaps  she  ought  not  to  stay  any 
longer ;  so,  rising  up  to  go,  she  slipped  her  piece  of  silver,  which 
she  had  managed  to  get  unseen  from  her  purse,  into  the  cobbler's 
hand,  saying  softly,  "  Will  you  take  that  little  present  from  me  ?" 
and  then,  in  a  minute  more,  she  was  climbing  the  steep  stairs  that 
led  out  of  the  court. 

Jane  waited  in  hope  of  some  more  shoes  needing  repair,  ana 
it  was  not  long  before  her  mother,  who  never  forgot  a  case  of 
want  when  once  made  acquainted  with  it,  called  her,  and  packed 
into  a  basket  some  of  her  children's  shoes,  which  she  told  Jane 
«he  plight  take  to  her  cobbler.     So  Jane  set  out  on  the  pleasant 


846  MINIBTERING     CHILDREN. 

errand.  As  she  descended  the  higli  steps  she  heard  some  one 
singing ;  it  was  a  bright  spring  day,  and  the  CQbbler's  lattice 
window  was  open ;  Jane  felt  sure  the  voice  came  from  there ;  as 
she  passed  the  window  it  stopped.  Jane  delivered  the  work  she 
had  brought  into  the  hands  of  the  cobbler,  and  then  sat  down 
on  the  chair  he  had  set  for  her  near  his  stall,  quite  disposed  to 
linger  in  the  tempting-looking  cottage,  now  lighted  up  by  tte 
spring's  sweet  sunshine. 

"  Do  you  sing  at  your  work  ?"  asked  Jane. 

"  Well,  miss,  I  do  amuse  myself  a  little  that  way  sometimes," 
said  the  old  man,  going  on  as  fast  as  possible  with  his  work,  "  I 
find  it  keeps  troublesome  thoughts  out,  and  cheers  my  spirits  up. 
I  was  singing  a  verse,  as  you  came,  that 's  seldom  long  from  my 
thoughts;"  and  the  cobbler  took  off  his  spectacles,  and  looked  up 
with  his  face  of  unchanging  sunshine  and  said — 

"  Though  vilely  clad,  and  meanly  fed, 
And,  like  my  Saviour,  poor, 
I  would  not  change  my  Grospel  bread 
For  all  the  worldling's  store." 

Now  Jane  was  surprised  at  the  cobbler's  happiness,  and  could 
not  quite  understand  why  he  should  seem  to  be  the  happiest  of 
all  the  good  people  she  knew,  so  she  said,  "  Every  one  who  loves 
God  is  not  so  happy  as  you  are  ?" 

"  Well,  miss,"  rephed  the  cobbler,  "  perhaps  it  is  not  given  to 
all  alike — we  see  a  deal  of  those  difierences  in  the  Bible.  It 
pleases  God,  I  believe,  to  try  his  people  some  one  way,  and  some 
another.  I  am  very  poor,  but  maybe  there's  another  who  is  not 
■ — then  he  must  have  his  trial  some  other  way  :  let  it  be  as  it 
will,  each  must  have  a  trial !"  said  the  cobbler,  looking  up  over 
the  top  of  his  spectacles  earnestly  at  Jane,  as  if  anxious  to  im- 
press thiat  truth  en  her  mind.     "  All  must  have  a  trial  some 


MIMSTERIIJa     CHILDEE^ 


34'? 


way — ^because  it  is  written,  '  Ye  must  through  much  tribulation 
enter  into  the  kingdom  of  Heaven !' " 

"  But,"  asked  Jane,  "  is  it  not  very  difficult  to  be  always  hap- 

py'"        ^ 

"  Well,  miss,"  answered  the  cobbler,  without  pausing  in  his 
busy  labor,  "  I  should  soon  be  dull  enough  if  I  were  left  to  my- 
self ;  but  I  will  tell  you  what  I  find  the  best  help,  I  always  try 
to  keep  a  flame  of  praise  ht  up  in  my  heart,  and  that  burns  up 
the  dross  of  unbelief  and  discontent  in  a  wonderful  way !  That's 
one  reason  why  I  so  often  take  to  singing  a  hymn — when  I  find 
that  flame  of  praise  is  getting  low,  and  I  can  only  work  on,  and 
so  little  coming  in  often  for  my  work  when  it  is  done,  then  I  get 
singing  some  hymn  of  praise  to  that  Saviour,  who  worked  out 
my  salvation  at  such  a  cost  as  His  own  blessed  life,  and  gives  it 
to  me  without  money  and  without  price  ;  and  then  when  praise 
to  Him  kindles  up  in  my  heart,  it  burns  up  the  discontent  in  no 
time.  And  then,  dear  me,  what  mercies  come  in !  It  was  only 
last  night  I  lay  awake  thinking  entirely  of  our  Mary ;  you  see, 
miss,  she  is  the  youngest,  and  I  have  had  many  an  anxiety  about 
her,  not  but  what  she  is  a  good  girl  to  us,  but  she  is  very  silent, 
and  I  was  afraid  whether  the  love  of  her  Saviour  was  in  her  heart. 
Well,  as  I  lay  awake  last  night,  I  kept  praying  that  the  Lord 
would  give  her  grace  to  choose  the  better  part,  like  Mary  we 
read  of  in  the  Scriptures,  but  I  did  not  say  any  thing  to  her , 
well,  this  morning  she  said  to  me,  '  Father,  there  was  a  text  in 
my  mind  last  night  that  I  could  not  seem  to  forget,  "  Mary  had 
chosen  the  better  part,  that  shall  never  be  taken  from  her" — I 
hope  I  shall  do  that !  father.'  Now  what  a  mercy  that  was :  who 
could  but  know  that  must  be  the  Lord's  doing !" 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Jane  loved  to  visit  the  cobbler's  bright 
cottage.  There  she  saw  faith,  not  so  much  contending  with  dif- 
ficulties as  triumphing  over  them,  and  its  victory  could  not  bul 


348  M^NISTERl^G    children. 

appear  beautiful,  even  to  the  eyes  of  a  child.  One  day,  as  Jane 
was  looking  at  a  hymn-book,  she  suddenly  caught  sight  of  the 
very  same  verse  that  the  old  cobbler  had  repeated  to  her  as  the 
one  he  had  been  singing.  Jane  showed  it  to  her  mother,  with 
the  greatest  feeling  of  interest ;  and  her  mother,  always  quick  to 
meet  and  strengthen  every  pure  and  hallowed  feeling,  found  ar 
embossed  card  she  had  somewhere  laid  by,  and  in  her  plainest 
writing  copied  the  favorite  verse,  in  the  center  of  the  card ;  then 
finding  four  little  brass  nails,  and  showing  Jane  how  to  cut  up  a 
piece  of  scarlet  cloth  in  small  rounds  to  fix  the  nails  into,  she 
gave  all  into  Jane's  possession,  who  went  the  next  day,  after  her 
morning  school,  by  the  mother's  leave,  to  carry  the  treasure.  She 
stood  up  in  a  chair,  and  nailed  it  herself  with  the  cobbler's  little 
hammer  over  the  mantle-piece,  while  all  the  family  stood  ad- 
miring ;  and  there  the  cobbler,  whenever  he  looked  up,  was  re- 
minded of  his  hymn  of  praise.  Jane  gave  so  wann  an  account  of 
the  feeling  called  forth  by  the  card  upon  the  wall,  that  her 
mother  said,  "  If  you  save  up  your  pence  for  a  month,  I  w^ill  show 
you  what  more  you  can  do  to  adorn  the  cottage."  Jane  could 
not  imagine  what  fourpence  could  do  to  adorn  her  old  cob- 
bler's walls ;  she  tried  to  find  out,  but  she  could  not  |  "uess, 
and  her  mother  still  kept  back  the  secret.  At  last  the  fourth 
Saturday  came,  and  Jane  was  possessor  of  fourpence.  "  Now, 
mamma,  what  can  it  be  ?  do  tell  me !"  "  You  shall  go  out 
with  me,  and  then  you  will  see,"  said  her  mother.  So  Jane 
went  out  with  her  mother,  and  when  Mrs.  Mansfield  had  ac- 
complished her  business,  she  took  Jane  to  a  stationer's  shop, 
and  asked  for  some  pasteboard ;  she  chose  three  penny  sheets, 
dark  purple  on  the  wrong  side,  and  white  on  the  right ;  then 
Mrs.  Mansfield  asked  for  some  tissue-paper,  and  chose  a  penny 
sheet  of  lilac  color.  "  Now,  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Mansfield,  "  you 
hare  spent  your  fourpence,  and   this  afternoon  you  shall  see 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  849 

what  you  can  do!"  On-  their  return,  Mrs.  Mansfield  looked 
out  with  Jane  some  of  the  most  interesting  pictures  on  the 
Church  Missionary  papers ;  then  making  some  paste,  she  bade 
Jane  put  on  her  pinafore,  and  laying  the  nursery  ironing-board  on 
the  nursery  table,  Mrs.  Mansfield  showed  Jane  how  to  divide  the 
large  sheets  of  pasteboard  in  half,  then  to  cut  the  tissue  paper  in 
broad  strips,  and  paste  it  round  the  margin  of  the  pasteboard, 
laying  the  Missionary  picture  in  the  middle ;  then  pressing  them 
under  something  heavy,  and  large  enougK  to  cover  them,  they 
looked,  when  dry,  like  pictures  mounted  on  colored  cardboard, 
and  the  broad  lilac  margin  made  the  eflfect  very  pretty — but  it 
required  care  to  lay  the  thin  tissue-paper  smoothly  on,  when  wet 
with  the  paste.  Jane  was  delighted  with  her  work,  and  the 
next  week,  when  the  pictures  were  quite  dry,  her  mother  pro- 
\aded  the  scarlet  cloth  to  be  cut  into  very  small  rounds  for  each 
nail,  and  four  nails  for  each  picture,  there  being  six  pictures,  and 
Jane  carried  a  hammer  at  the  bottom  of  her  little  basket,  for 
fear  the  old  cobbler's  small  wooden  hammer  should  not  prove 
sufficient;  and  attended  by  the  cobbler's  wife  and  daughters, 
while  the  old  cobbler  looked  up  from  his  work  continually,  Jane 
put  up  the  pictures  to  the  pleasure  and  admiration  of  all.  Then 
the  old  cobbler  stood  up  and  looked  round  with  delight,  not 
alone  on  the  bi-ightened  aspect  of  his  walls,  but  on  scenes  that 
told  of  the  triumphs  of  his  own  pure  and  Heavenly  faith  over 
the  dark  and  cruel  superstition  of  idolatry.  From  that  time  it 
was  a  favorite  amusement  with  Jane,  to  save  up  her  weekly 
pence  and  make  pictures  to  adorn  the  walls  of  all  her  poor  friends. 
And  now  we  must  say  farewell  to  Jane  in  her  childhood. 
We  leave  her  gathering  around  her  the  hearts  of  the  poor. 
And  He  who  guides  the  sparrow's  fall,  guided  her  steps,  so  that 
never  breath  of  evil,  or  sia^ht  of  sin,  fell  on  her  childhood's  ear 
or  eye,  among  the  poor. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

*•  It  gi  ew  up  together  with  him,  and  with  his  children ;  and  was  onto  him  as  I 
daughter."— 2  Samubl  xiL  S. 

ITTHEN  three  •months  had  passed  away,  the  young  Squire 
went  alone  to  old  Willy's  cottage ;  he  stayed  some  time  in 
the  house,  then  walked  in  the  garden,  and  seemed  engaged  in  a 
general  consideration  of  the  place.  The  next  day  workmen 
arrived,  and  the  young  Squire  went  down  to  meet  them.  Then 
began  pulling  down  and  building  up ;  the  front  of  the  cottage 
remained  as  it  was,  the  room  in  which  old  Willy  sat  by  day  and 
slept  by  night  was  untouched,  but  other  rooms  were  added  be- 
hind, till  the  dwelling  rose  with  its  three  chambers  above,  ita 
back  kitchen  and  little  dairy,  and  out-houses,  complete.  Some 
said  the  young  Squire  was  going  to  turn  the  place  into  a  farm ; 
but  no,  it  was  a  simple  cottage  still,  too  large  for  one  person, 
but  with  every  comfort  for  a  family.  The  young  Squire  often 
walked  down  to  the  spot,  looking  with  interest  on  all,  and  giving 
his  directions  to  the  workmen. 

Meanwhile  the  summer  months  were  gliding  by.  Snowflake 
and  Jet  again  drew  the  pony-carriage,  and  Herbert  again  drove 
his  mother  out ;  and  still  sometimes  Mrs.  Clifford  would  call  at 
a  cottage,  but  more  generally  she  only  stopped  in  passing,  to 
make  kind  inquiry ;  it  was  evident  that  any  general  intercourse 
with  others,  was,  as  yet,  an  efibrt  to  her.  But  one  day  she 
stopped  at  widow  Jones's  door,  and  finding  her  at  home,  went  in. 
Mrs.  Clifford  had  never  forgotten  Mercy — the  child  in  whom 


MIlilSTERING     CHILDREN.  861 

Miss  Clifford  had  always  seemed,  perhaps,  to  take  more  inteiesl 
fhan  in  any  other ;  and  Mrs.  Clifford,  knowing  her  to  be  of  an 
age  for  ser\ace,  and  remembering  her  delicate  look,  was  afraid 
lest  any  place  of  common  work  should  prove  beyond  her  strength, 
so  she  called  on  the  widow  Jones  to  ask  whether  she  had  any 
■wish  about  her  granddaughter  that  she  could  be  aided  in. 
Widow  Jones  replied  that  she  had  long  been  on  the  look-out  for 
a  situation  for  Mercy ;  the  field-work  was  too  much  for  her,  she 
had  not  the  strength  for  it — and  that  was  her  fear  about  service, 
but  she  believed  she  must  make  inquiry  for  a  plafce  in  the  town 
before  another  winter  came  on.  Hearing  this,  Mrs.  Clifford 
offered  to  take  ISIercy,  and  have  her  trained  under  her  own 
maid,  adding, "  I  should  have  her  a  good  deal  with  me,  she  would 
have  to  read  to  me,  and  to  cany  out  many  little  plans  I  may 
not  feel  able  to  undertake  now  myself,  in  the  village.  I  believe 
her  to  be  capable  of  this,  and  if  it  meets  your  wish,  I  shall  be 
quite  willing  to  try  her."  This  proposal  was  received  with  over- 
flo'wing  gratitude  by  widow  Jones;  and  when  Mercy  heard 
of  it,  with  delight  by  her.  To  live  still  in  her  own  village  near 
her  grandmother,  to  live  in  her  young  lady's  own  home,  and 
wait  on  madam — all  this  was  more  than  hope  could  have 
believed,  or  imagination  pictured !  So  Mercy  went  to  service 
at  the  Hall,  to  wait  on  Mrs.  Clifford,  and  be  trained  under  her 
maid. 

When  September  hung  its  ripe  fruit  upon  the  trees  in  old 
Willy's  garden,  the  cottage  stood  complete ;  the  bricklayers,  and 
carpenters,  and  thatchers,  and  glaziers,  and  painters  were  gone. 
The  door  was  again  locked,  and  the  place  stood  silent  and  peace- 
ful. Then  early  one  autumn  evening,  just  as  Jem  returned  home 
from  his  work  at  the  farm,  the  young  Squire  called  at  his  cot- 
tage, saying,  "  I  came  to  ask  you  and  your  mother  to  come  and 
see  the  dear  old  man's  dwelling.    I  have  had  it  enlarged ;  and 


852  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

you  always  took  so  mucli  interest  in  it,  that  I  wish  to  show  it  tft 
you  myself." 

Widow  Jones  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  walked  up  the  lane 
with  her  son  Jem  and  the  young  Squire.  The  sun  was  set- 
ting, and  his  parting  beams  fell  upon  the  cottage-roof,  and  gilded 
the  garden  trees.  The  young  Squire  crossed  the  garden-stile — 
the  very  same  that  used  to  be — then  turning  round,  he  said  with 
a  grave  smile  to  Jem,  "  Do  you  remember  the  dark  morning 
when  you  and  I  first  crossed  that  stile  together  ?"  "  It  was  a 
good  morning,  sir,  for  him  that  dwelt  within  !"  said  Jem ;  and 
on  they  passed. 

The  young  Squire  unlocked  the  door,  and  they  went  in. 
There  was  the  same  look  about  the  open  fire-place ;  the  very 
chair  old  Willy  always  sat  in,  with  its  crimson  cushion,  was 
there  ;  there  stood  the  little  table,  and  the  very  stool  on  which 
the  young  squire  used  to  sit  The  bed  '^vas  gone,  and  in  its 
place  stood  a  bureau,  and  a  larger  table,  and  chairs  round  the 
room — while  flowers  in  pots  bloomed  in  the  window.  "  What 
do  you  think  of  it  ?"  asked  the  young  Squire,  as  Jem  and  his 
mother  looked  round  with  wondering  eyes,  "  'Tis  made  wholly 
beautiful,  T  am  sure  !"  said  Jem.  "  There  is  not  the  cottage  like 
to  it  in  the  place  !"  said  widow  Jones. 

"  Then,  Jem,  what  do  you  say  to  being  my  tenant,  and  bring- 
ing your  old  mother  to  live  here  in  comfort  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  I  am  afraid  I  should  fail  more  in  the  doing  than 
the  saying,  so  far  as  that  is  concerned — my  best  wages  could 
never  clear  the  rent  of  such  a  place  as  this !" 

"  And  I  suppose,"  said  the  young  Squire,  "  you  would  be  as 
hard  as  my  dear  old  Willy  himself  to  be  persuaded  that  a  house 
could  be  honestly  tenanted  without  the  payment  of  money  ! 
But  you  need  not  fear  robbing  me  when  I  say  you  shall  pay  me 
no  rent,  for  I  hold  this  dwelling  a  sacred  place,  for  many  rea-. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  868 

sons,  and  so  long  as  I  can  find  a  faitliful  heart  to  inhabit  it,  ] 
mean  never  to  let  it  for  money !  I  make  it  your  home  now,  and 
your  mother's,  till  such  time  as  you  may  receive  notice  to  quit 
it — which  will  not  be  with  my  desire,  so  long  as  life  is  granted 
you,  if  you  are  enabled  to  maintain  the  same  character  as  that 
which  wins  my  regard  for  you  now.  You  will  find  the  upper 
rooms  furnished  as  well  as  this.  The  furniture  is  all  your  own  : 
I  purchased  it  for  you ;  the  house  and  land  you  hold  as  my 
tenant — ^in  proof  of  which  you  may  always  send  up  to  the  Hall 
the  first  dish  of  rosy  apples  you  gather  from  the  trees  I  planted  1 
There  is  a  small  field,  that  was  part  of  the  little  place  when 
bought;  I  let  it  to  the  farmer  who  had  hired  it  before — old 
Willy  having  no  use  for  it — ^but  I  have  now  attached  it  to-  the 
cottage,  and  had  a  gate  made  into  it  from  the  garden  :  you  can 
let  it  or  use  it,  as  you  like,  only  seeing  that  it  is  kept  in  grass, 
and  not  dug  up  without  my  consent.  And  may  old  Willy's 
God  grant  you  to  live  as  blessed  and  peaceful  an  old  age  as 
he  enjoyed  beneath  this  roof!"  Widow  Jones  and  her  son  were 
filled  w^ith  surprise  and  gratitude.  The  Squire  let  them  speak 
their  broken  words  of  thankfulness,  that  they  might  not  after- 
ward feel  distressed  at  havang  said  nothing.  And  then  talking 
a  few  minutes  more  with  them,  and  telling  widow  Jones  that  he 
should  request  his  mother  to  let  her  granddaughter  be  sent  to 
them  the  next  day  to  help  them  move  in,  he  left  them  with  the 
key  in  their  possession. 

The  move  was  soon  effected — where  every  thing  was  pre- 
pared beforehand  for  use  and  comfort.  Widow  Jones  sold  off 
most  of  her  old  furniture,  saying  there  was  scarce  a  piece  of  it 
that  was  fit  so  much  as  to  see  inside  of  such  a  place  as  the 
Squire  had  prepared  for  her  Jem !  and  there,  with  Mercy's 
help,  they  slept  in  peace  the  following  night ;  widow  jTones 
only  expressed  her  fear,  as  to  how  she  could  ever  bring  her 


854  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

wind  to  tlie  care  of  such  things  as  stood  on  every  side  there 
— look  which  way  you  would  !  When  the  young  Squire  went 
to  college  in  October,  he  left  Jem  quietly  settled  in  his  new 
abode.  The  whole  village  rejoiced  in  the  good  fortune  of  Jem 
—honest  Jem ;  for  Jem  was,  as  may  be  supposed,  a  general 
fe,vorite.  Was  he  not  always  ready  to  lend  a  helping  hand, 
to  tender  some  kindly  office  in  sickness  or  trouble,  and  at  all 
times  to  speak  a  pleasant  word?  None  but  the  bad  could 
have  failed  to  look  kindly  on  honest  Jem.  But  among  the 
general  pleasure  felt,  none  was  more  warmly  expressed  than 
Mrs.  Smith's ;  her  regard  for  both  mother  and  son  seemed  to 
make  her  pleasure  in  the  event  double  :  and  never  could  honest 
laborer,  and  faithful  servant,  and  dutiful  son,  have  entered  a 
new  abode  with  more  pleasant  feelings  to  himself  and  others 
— than  honest  Jem,  when  he  called  the  home  of  old  Willy  his 
own ! 

William's  return  had  been  anxiously  looked  for  this  year  at 
the  farm;  but  when  the  time  drew  near,  he  wrote  word  to  his 
father,  that  though  very  sorry  to  be  absent  longer,  he  did  feel 
a  wish  to  stay  one  year  more.  His  uncle,  he  said,  would  be 
glad  to  detain  him,  and  offered  to  raise  his  salary  again — but 
he  did  not  feel  bound  on  that  account ;  still  there  were  reasons 
that  would  make  him  glad  of  another  year,  and  though  he  felt 
the  disappointed  hope  more,  he  was  sure,  than  any  one  else 
could,  yet,  if  his  father  was  willing,  he  certainly  should  wish  to 
stay  till  the  following  July,  when  he  hoped  t<^  be  down  in  time 
to  put  the  first  sickle  to  the  com.  Samson  was  getting  on  well 
in  his  uncle's  business  and  favor ;  Joe  was  as  happy  as  possi* 
ble,  and  plainly  giving  satisfaction  in  the  merchant's  office — 
and  by  next  year  Joe  hoped  to  have  found  a  ship  for  Ted 
So  the  hope  of  the  parents  was  still  deferred ;  and  a  short  visit 
from  their  three  sons,  all  they  could  that  year  enjoy.     Wilham 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  366 

said  nothing  as  to  Ms  reason  for  wishing  to  remain  longer  in 
London  ;  but  every  thing  seemed  going  on  well  with  the  three 
brothers ;  and  it  was  not  difficult  for  fanner  Smith  to  believe 
that  to  have  William  to  watch  over  the  other  two  was  a  great 
security  for  them. 

In  the  following  winter  the  old  Clergyman  died.  Much 
anxiety  was  felt  in  the  village  as  to  whether  the  Curate  would 
remain ;  the  anxiety  of  Mrs.  Smith  equaled  that  felt  by  farmer 
Smith  and  Rose,  and  great  was  the  universal  joy  when  it  was 
known  that  Mrs.  Clifford  had  presented  the  hving  to  the  Curate, 
and  that  now  the  villagers  might  hope  he  would  live  and  die 
among  them.  The  late  Clergyman's  widow  remained  some 
months  in  the  rectory,  and  every  thing  went  on  as  before  ;  till 
one  day  farmer  Smith  returned  from  market  with  an  unusually 
clouded  brow. 

"  I  never  saw  you  look  more  like  bad  news,"  said  Mrs.  Smith, 
"  what  has  happened  ?" 

Farmer  Smith  was  silent. 

"  Come  now,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  bad  will  be  none  the  better 
for  waiting !     I  may  as  well  know  to-day  as  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  it 's  only  the  horse,"  said  farmer  Smith,  "  I  saw  a  paper 
in  the  town,  and  there 's  to  be  a  sale  at  the  rectory,  and  Black 
Beauty  is  in  the  list." 

"  Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith,  "  he  is  none  of  yours  now  !  and 
you  can't  take  up  with  vexing  over  the  sale  of  other  people's 
creatures.  Not  but  what  I  am  sorry  enough  myself,  but  I  have 
seen  the  good  of  his  going  since,  and  you  must  think  of  that. 
If  Will  laid  the  first  stone  of  Joe's  good  fortune,  it  was  the  horse 
helped  you  set  him  on  it,  you  could  not  have  done  it  without 
him.  I  am  sure  I  made  sin  enough  of  it  before,  so  I  have 
reason  to  bear  with  it  now.  I  am  only  thankful  the  child  does 
not  know  of  his  going — he  used  to  count  so  of  seeing   th« 


356  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

srea  ure  pass  by !  but  lie  is  better  off ;  and  we,  why  we  must 
take  the  rougb  with  the  smooth  as  it  comes,  and  be  thankful 
there's  One  who  can  make  them  both  '  work  together  for  good/ 
as  the  Minister  tells  us." 

Farmer  Smith  felt  relieved,  for  he  had  dreaded  the  telling  his 
wife,  or  her  knowing  that  the  favorite  horse  was  to  be  put  up  to 
the  highest  bidder.  The  young  Squire  was  absent  at  college ; 
and  many  a  time  farmer  Smith  thought,  had  he  but  been  at  the 
Hall,  there. was  little  doubt  that  he  would  have  bought  the 
favorite,  and  then  the  creature  would  but  have  exchanged  one 
good  stable  for  another,  still  in  sight  of  his  first  possessors. 
But  the  young  Squire  was  away,  so  there  was  no  prospect  but 
that  of  soon  looking  his  last  on  Black  Beauty. 

No  further  mention  was  made  of  the  subject,  till  a  day  or 
two  after,  Ted  rushed  in  exclaiming,  "  Mother,  where 's  father  ? 
there's  to  be  a  sale  at  the  rectory,  and  Black  Beauty's  do^vn  in 
the  list !  the  bill  is  up  on  the  blacksmith's  shop — I  saw  it  my- 
self!" 

"  "Well,  child,  the  rector's  lady  has  as  much  right  to  sell  the 
horse  as  your  fether  had — ^it  was  his  then,  and  it's  hers  now." 

"  What,  don't  you  mind  about  it  then,  mother  ?" 

"Mind !  child,  what's  the  use  of  minding?  I  have  vexed  too 
much  already  for  the  poor  beast !  Don't  you  say  a  word  to 
your  father  about  it ;  I  shall  mind  that  if  you  do ;  let  him  for- 
get it  if  he  can." 

"  But,  mother,  father  can't  forget !  How  can  he  forget,  when 
he  must  hear  and  know  all  about  it  ?" 

"  Well,  don't  you  say  a  word  to  make  him  think  the  more; 
you  try  and  make  the  best  of  it,  not  the  worst — that's  what  you 
have  to  do." 

"  I  know  what  I  shall  do,"  replied  Ted,  "  I  shall  just  write  oft 
and  tell  William !" 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  357 

"No,  that  I  do  forbid;"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "for  why  in  the 
world  should  you  want  to  worry  him  with  it  ?  do  you  think  he 
has  not  felt  enough  about  it  already  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  but  then  I  know  William  has  some  money,  I 
am  quite  sure  of  that,  and  a  great  deal  too,  for  when  I  asked 
him  if  he  had  not  last  time  he  was  down,  he  said,  *  What  you 
would  call  a  great  deal  perhaps !'  so  I  know  he  has,  and  then 
he  could  just  send  and  buy  Black  Beauty  away  from  them 
all!" 

"  That  does  not  signify,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith.  "  If  William 
has  money  he  has  earned  it  hardly  enough,  and  I  would  not  for 
the  world  have  it  taken  from  him  to  buy  back  a  horse." 

"  Well,  mother,  William  does  not  care  for  money,  I  am  sure, 
for  he  said  when  I  asked  him  if  he  had  not  got  a  great  deal, 
that  he  would  have  given  all  up  over  and  over  again  to  be  only 
yard-boy  on  father's  farm — ^if  there  had  been  none  but  himself 
he  had  to  tliink  of!  so  I  am  sure  he  can't  care  for  money;  and 
every  body  knows  how  he  cared  for  that  horse !" 

"Never  mind,  child,  it's  plain  enough  he  did  not  wish  to  be 
after  buying  him  back,  or  he  could  have  saia  as  easy  as  not, 
*If  there's  a  sale,  you  might  let  me  know!'  but  he  never  said 
a  word  about  it  in  any  letter,  and  if  we  write  him  word,  why  it 
will  put  him  up  to  do  it  just  to  please  us,  and  I  would  not 
have  that  on  any  account.  I  will  Hot  have  a  word  written  to 
any  one  of  them  till  the  sale  is  over ;  you  remember  I  have 
said  it !" 

"Well,  mother,  if  I  must  not  speak  to  father  nor  William,  I 
declare  I  will  go  off  to  the  sale  and  see  after  the  horse  myself ! 
and  I  will  speak  a  word  to  whoever  buys  him — let  it  be  who  it 
will,  and  if  it's  no  more  than  to  tell  them  what  our  Minister  told 
us  in  our  class — ^it  may  stick  by  them,  and  fright  them  a  little, 
if  they  don't  use  him  as  they  should !     I  would  not  have  him 


358  MINISTERING    CHILDREN. 

bought,  and  led  off,  and  no  one  to  speak  a  word  for  him  for  any 
thing!" 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith, "  so  long  as  you  keep  to  what 
our  Minister  says,  you  are  safe  enough."  And  Ted,  satisfied  at 
having  at  last  fixed  upon  something  he  might  do,  grew  more 
composed  on  the  subject,  and  when  alone  with  his  father,  he 
said,  "  Never  you  mind,  father,  about  Black  Beauty's  being  sold 
off  again,  I  have  just  got  a  word  to  say  to  whoever  buys  him 
that  may  be  of  good  use  to  the  horse :  I  mean  to  be  up  at  the 
sale,  and  see  all  about  it,  and  then  I  can  tell  you,  father !"  And 
the  thought  of  this  seasonable  address  that  was  to  be  made  to 
the  buyer  of  Black  Beauty,  with  the  care  necessary  in  compos- 
ing and  recomposing  it  to  make  it  as  brief  and  forcible  as  pos- 
sible, changed  the  prospect  of  the  approaching  sale  into  an  event 
of  effort  and  interest,  rather  than  of  distress  to  Ted. 

The  morning  of  the  sale  arrived.  "  Mother,"  said  Ted,  "  I 
must  be  off  now,  and  I  want  my  best  jacket;  no  one  will  care  for 
me  if  I  don't  look  something  respectable."  So  Mrs.  Smith 
brought  Ted  his  best  jacket,  which  was  of  dark  blue,  having 
been  his  particular  request  as  most  suitable  for  one  who  was 
soon  to  be  a  sailor ;  arrayed  in  this,  with  his  round  straw  hat  on 
the  side  of  his  head,  and  his  little  cane  in  his  hand,  he  set  off'  to 
the  sale.  "  Never  you  mind,  father !"  said  Ted,  as  he  stopped  to 
speak  to  his  parent  on  the  green  slope  from  the  house,  "I  am  off 
to  the  sale,  just  to  do  what  can  be  done,  and  then  I  will  come 
home  and  tell  you.  And  there 's  sure  to  be  good  come  of  it, 
father,  though  we  may  never  know  it,  for  the  Minister  says,  when 
the  right  thing  is  done,  if  people  don't  think  of  it  at  first,  they 
will  sooner  or  later ;  and  I  know  just  what  he  said  about  those 
who  have  to  do  with  dumb  creatures !  so  never  you  mind,  father, 
I  am  now  off  for  ihe  sale.  Tell  mother  not  to  think  about  dinner 
for  me,  there's  no  saying  when  I  shall  be  back."     "Take  care 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  869 

what  you  are  after  ?"  said  the  father.  But  off  ran  the  minister 
ing  boy  to  watch  over  Black  Beauty,  and  speak  the  word  of 
warning  he  had  heard  from  the  Minister's  lips,  to  whoever  might 
purchase  the  horse. 

It  was  a  heavy  day  to  farmer  Smith — this  second  sale  of  the 
favorite  horse,  close  by  his  own  door,  and  he  not  able  to  pur- 
chase it  back,  nor  now  to  have  any  control  over  the  hands  into 
which  it  passed,  troubled  him  not  a  little.  The  creature  had 
been  born  and  reared  on  his  farm,  had  played  with  his  children, 
fed  from  their  hands,  he  had  himself  broken  it  in  for  use,  and  it 
would  leave  its  food  or  its  pasture  at  any  time  at  the  first  sound 
of  his  voice — the  after-tie  may  be  strong  between  master  and 
steed,  but  it  is  on  the  farm  where  the  creature  is  bom,  and 
reared,  and  trained,  that  the  feeling  becomes  all  but  a  familj 
bond! 

Mrs.  Smith  took  the  event  more  quietly ;  her  heart  had  beei 
broken  up  by  the  bitter  anguish  of  remorse — remorse  for  yean 
of  pride  of  heart  and  self-will;  and  though  the  balm  of  Heavenl} 
love  may  bind  up  such  broken  hearts,  yet  must  the  surface- 
changes  of  life  have  but  comparatively  little  power  to  distress 
— where  sorrow  so  far  deeper  still  lies  within.  Yet  Mrs.  Smith 
did  feel  it ;  and  the  point  in  which  it  touched  her  most,  was 
her  sense  of  what  the  sorrow  of  little  Tim  would  have  been  to 
have  had  his  favorite  sold  away  a  second  time,  where  he  could 
never  see  him  pass.  But  Mrs.  Smith  spoke  not  of  this ;  she 
had  learned  to  endure  in  silence,  conscious  of  the  past — when 
her  personal  annoyances  were  always  made  a  subject  of  dis- 
tress for  others ;  so  she  now  made  an  effort  to  hide  her  own 
feeling,  and  comfort  those  around  her.  Rose  saw  her  father's 
grave  expression  of  face,  and  stepping  out  beside  him,  after  din- 
ner, said,  "Never  mind,  father,  I  think  it's  better  the  horse 
should  be  taken  quite  away  before  Will  comes  home,  or  he 


aCO  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

would  always  be  seeing  him,  and  then  you  know,  father,  perhape 
he  could  not  help  wishing  for  him,  and  that  would  be  wrong 
now  he  is  sold  away ;  and  it  would  be  vexing  to  William,  and  to 
Joe — ^if  he  knew  that  William  could  not  help  wishing  him  back : 
80  I  think  it 's  best,  father  !" 

"  So  it  is,  Rose,  I  dare  say,  if  I  could  but  be  sure  of  his  being 
well  off." 

"  But,  father,  God  made  the  creatures ;  and  when  we  can't 
take  care  of  them  any  longer  we  must  leave  them  to  Him.  I 
am  sure,  father,  you  did  the  best  you  could,  and  then  if  we  don't 
'  feel  satisfied,  that  looks  as  if  we  could  not  trust  God  Almighty ; 
and  you  know  it  says  in  the  Bible,  the  sparrow  does  not  fall  to 
the  ground  without  our  Heavenly  Father  !" 

"  So  it  does.  Rose ;  I  will  think  of  that.  Oh,  if  my  mother 
could  but  hear  how  you  comfort  me !  But  I  have  a  hope  now 
that  I  shall  show  you  to  her  some  day  in  Heaven,  and  tell  her 
how  her  prayers  were  all  answered,  though  she  never  knew  it." 
So  farmer  Smith  passed  on  with  livelier  step  to  his  men,  and 
Rose  went  back  to  iron  at  her  mother's  side. 

Ted  had  not  returned  to  dinner ;  and  now  his  mother,  each 
time  she  paused  in  her  work  and  set  the  iron  down  upon  the 
stand,  gave  a  glance  from  the  window. 

"  I  can't  think  what  the  child  is  stopping  after,  all  this  time  P* 
at  length  said  Mrs.  Smith. 

"  I  dare  say  Black  Beauty  came  near  the  end  of  the  sale,"  re- 
plied Rose,  "  and  he  said  he  should  not  stir  from  the  place  till  he 
saw  what  became  of  him." 

Mrs.  Smith  said  no  more ;  only  looking  from  time  to  time 
along  the  distant  road.  Four  o'clock — five  o'clock  passed,  and 
Rose  prepared  the  tea ;  the  ironing  was  finished  and  all  cleared 
away,  and  the  table  was  set,  the  toast  made,  Mr.  Smith  came  in, 
but  no  Ted  appeared. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  361 

**  I  can  not  think  what  the  boy  is  after !"  said  Mrs.  Smith.  "  T 
wish  you  would  just  step  and  see  ;  and  tell  him  he  must  coma 
liome.  I  would  not  have  him  stay  after  dark  among  a  set  of 
horse-dealers  for  any  thing  !'* 

Mr.  Smith  took  his  hat  and  went ;  and  Mrs.  Smith  watched 
at  the  window — watched  till  she  saw  him  returning  alone. 
"  Where  's  the  child  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Smith,  "  I  wish  enough  you 
had  brought  him !" 

"  I  don't  think  he  will  tal^e  any  harm,"  replied  farmer  Smith. 
"  I  saw  Beetlebright,  the  horse-dealer,  there,  and  I  asked  him  to 
have  an  eye  on  the  boy — who  was  in  the  very  thick  of  it 
among  them  all,  looking  on  as  earnestly  as  possible ;  I  could 
not  catch  a  sight  from  his  eye ;  and  Beetlebright  told  me  the 
horse  was  coming  on  directly,  so  I  came  off,  for  I  could  not  stand 
to  see  him  led  up.  But  I  was  not  sorry  I  went,  for  I  heard  some 
good  news." 

"  Did  you  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Smith ;  and  her  tone  betrayed  how 
far  she  was  from  indifference  on  the  subject. 

"  Yes,  Beetlebright  told  me  he  knew  who  had  given  orders  to 
have  the  horse  purchased,  and  I  might  be  sure  he  would  have  a 
good  master,  if  ever  he  had !" 

"  Well,  that 's  a  comfort,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  I  am  sure  I  am 
thankfid  enough !  Did  he  say  who  ?" 

"  No,  he  turned  off  at  that ;  and  I  thought  no  doubt  he  would 
not  be  free  of  speaking  beforehand,  and  I  heard  them  call  for 
the  horse,  so  I  came  off." 

Upon  this,  Mrs.  Smith,  and  Rose  and  her  father  sat  down  to 
tea,  but  with  more  feeling  of  mind  than  hunger  of  body. 

"  Just  you  look  here.  Miss  Rose !"  said  Patience,  stepping 
quickly  up  to  the  door  of  the  family  kitchen,  which  always  stood 
open. 

All  ran  to  the  window,  being  ready  for  any  alarm.     There 

16 


862  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

came  the  boy,  in  blue  jacket  and  straw  hat,  mounted  on  Black 
Beauty — as  large  as  life,  and  as  steady  as  Time,  stepping  down 
the  old  familiar  hill — the  home  road  to  the  farm,  which  he  had 
never  trod  since  the  day  that  Joe  led  him  away.  All  hurried 
out  from  the  door ;  Rose  j3ew  down  the  sloping  green  to  the 
valley  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  Black  Beauty  stopped  of 
his  own  accord,  and  arched  his  neck,  and  put  his  nose  into  her 
hand. 

"  Now,  Rose,  that  will  do ;  do  n't  you  see  I  want  to  be  off 
to  father  ?"  said  Ted.  And  off  Black  Beauty  started  on  the  ac- 
customed canter  along  the  path  up  the  greensward  that  led  to 
the  wicket-gate  of  the  garden. 

"  Do  go  and  see,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  what  the  boy  is  after !" 

But  farmer  Smith  stood  still  with  Mrs.  Smith  beside  the  gar- 
den-gate, at  which,  in  a  minute  more  Black  Beauty  made  a 
stand. 

"  What  in  the  world  have  you  been  after,  boy  ?  "WTiat  are 
you  doing  with  the  horse  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Smith ;  while  Rose  came 
breathless  from  her  run,  and  stood  beside.  But  now  Black 
Beauty's  turn  was  come  to  give  expression  to  his  feeHng :  he 
stood  again  upon  home  ground,  close  to  his  master,  who  had 
never  spoken  to  him  since  the  parting  day ;  he  rested  his  head 
upon  his  master's  shoulder,  stepped  from  side  to  side,  reached 
down  his  nose  and  courted  the  caress  first  of  one  and  then  the 
other — ^while  all  seemed  to  fail  in  its  power  to  express  the  noble 
creature's  joy.  The  men  were  turning  home  from  the  farm,  la- 
den with  the  implements  and  baskets,  and  they  gathered  won- 
dering round.  Jem  and  the  yard-boy  and  Patience  too,  jrere 
there  all  looking — ^intent  on  the  mystery ;  while  Mrs.  Smith 
hastily  repeated  her  inquiry. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  after,  boy  ?  Make  haste,  I  say 
and  speak  it  out !" 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  863 

"  Now,  motlier,"  said  Ted,  seated  like  a  chieftain  on  his  charg- 
er, "  ion't  look  as  if  you  thought  it  must  be  wrong  because  I 
have  done  it !" 

"  Done  what  ?"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  what  have  you  done  ? 

"  Why  brought  the  horse  home,  mother !" 

"  But  how  came  you  by  him  ?  that 's  what  I  want  to  know  T' 

"  Well,  mother,  I  did  nut  steal  him — though  you  look  as  if 
you  were  afraid  I  had ;  nor  beg  him,  nor  borrow  him,  he  was 
given  me  right  away  for  father  as  I  stood  there  !" 

"  Who  by  ?"  asked  farmer  Smith,  anxiously  and  earnestly. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  father,  only  it  was  the  man  who 
bought  him,  so  I  suppose  he  had  a  right  to  give  him  if  ho 
liked." 

"  I  am  afraid  there 's  some  mistake  in  it,"  said  farmer  Smith, 
seriously — looking  along  the  road  to  see  if  explanation,  clearer 
than  his  boy's,  might  be  coming  there — but  no  one  was  in 
sight. 

"  Well — now,  father,  you  listen,  and  I  will  just  tell  you,"  said 
•Ted,  still  seated  on  the  creature — ^yet  restless  with  its  joy.  "As 
soon  as  ever  they  led  up  the  horse  there  was  a  man  came  and 
stood  near  where  I  was.  He  seemed,  I  thought,  to  be  thinking 
of  buying,  and  I  wished  he  might ;  for  I  liked  the  look  of  him. 
Well,  they  kept  bidding,  and  I  got  in  such  a  way,  for  the  man 
seemed  ever  so  many  times  as  if  he  would  let  him  go,  and  he 
kept  so  quietly  at  it,  that  at  last  I  did  not  know  who  had  the 
horse ;  but  I  found  he  was  gone  down  to  some  one,  so  I  kept 
asking,  '  Who  has  hira  ?  who  has  him  V  and  they  pointed  to 
this  man.  So  I  watched  my  opportunity  when  he  was  pretty 
well  alone,  and  then  I  went  up  and  just  said  what  I  had  to  say 
to  him  !  Well,  he  listened,  and  when  I  had  done,  he  said,  '  You 
come  along  with  me,  and  see  what  you  think  of  my  usage  V 
80  I  went  with  him,  and  he  never  said  a  word  more,  but  un- 


364  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

packed  this  saddle  and  bridle — only  you  see,  father,  what  a  sad- 
dle it  is !"  said  Ted,  tumbling  himself  off  and  lifting  up  the  lappeta, 
more  thoroughly  to  display  the  saddle's  excellence. 

"  Well,  child,  what  then  ?"  asked  his  mother. 

"  Why,  when  he  had  done  putting  them  on,  and  seeing  they 
were  all  right,  he  said,  '  Now,  little  master,  have  you  a  mind  to 
ride  V  and  before  I  knew  what  to  say,  he  had  lifted  me  up.  0 
how  the  good  creature  did  paw  the  ground  when  I  was  once  up- 
on him !  he  knew  me  as  well  as  any  thing !  and  thought  he  was 
coming  off  here,  I  know  he  did  !" 

"  Well,  child,  but  go  on  !"  said  Mrs.  Smith. 

"  Dear  me,  mother,  I  don't  know  any  more !  only  when  the 
m-cm  had  lifted  me  on,  he  said,  '  You  go  and  preach  your  sermon 
to  jour  father,  for  he  is  the  owner  of  this  horse  now  ;  and  you 
tell  him  that  if  he  does  not  know  how  to  take  care  of  him,  he  has 
a  son  that  can  teach  him !  And  I  will  be  down  after  you  pres- 
ently, when  I  have  settled  some  other  business.' " 

"  Was  it  Beetlebright,  the  horse-dealer  ?"  asked  farmer  Smith. 

"  I  don't  know,  father,  but  I  think  I  have  seen  him  before  in 
the  town." 

"  But  did  not  he  say  a  word  of  who  sent  him  ?" 

"  Why,  he  sent  him,  father  !  he  bought  him,  and  sent  him  !" 

"  Nonsense,  child ;  a  horse-dealer  would  never  make  me  such 
a  present !" 

"  Here 's  some  one  now  coming  down  the  road,  sir,"  said  one 
of  the  men.  They  all  watched  ;  and  farmer  Smith  soon  descried 
the  substantial  figure  of  Beetlebright  the  horse-dealer,  who  made 
his  way  to  the  assembled  group. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  fai-mer  Smith,  stepping  forward,  "  we  are 
under  some  little  mistake  in  stopping  the  horse  at  our  gate !" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  replied  the  horse-dealer,  "  if  you  can  trust 
that  hand-writing,  and  I  think  it 's  as  good  and  honest  a  hand  bs 


MINISTERINa     CHILDREN.  866 

I  have  seen  for  many  a  day."     So  saying,  the  lioi>  j-  dealer  gave 
a  sealed  letter  to  farme^  Smith,  who  opened  it,  and  read  : 

"  Dear  Father, 

"  It  was  my  sorrow  to  cost  you  your  favorite  h  f  se  ;  you  did 
not  spare  him,  neither  did  William,  and  now  it  h  my  joy  to 
have  earned  him  back  again.  I  have  been  so  ar/il  I  should 
not  get  money  enough  before — for  some  reason  jf  other — he 
might  be  sold  off  !  I  have  never  spent  so  much  s.?.  a  sixpence, 
no,  nor  a  penny,  I  think,  that  I  could  do  withovi,;  und  now  I 
have  twenty  pounds  in  hand,  over  and  above  wh.tt  )  012  had  for 
him,  so  I  am  sure  of  it  now  !  I  hope  I  am  thankful,  I  am  sure 
I  think  I  am.  Don't  let  a  word  be  said  to  WilMam,  but  when 
he  comes  home  let  the  horse  be  taken  to  meet  him — be  sure  you 
aon't  let  him  know  till  then !  My  love  to  mother,  and  Rose, 
and  Ted.  Your  affectionate  and  dutiful  son, 

"Joseph  Smith." 

Farmer  Smith  put  the  letter  into  his  wife's  hand,  and  turned 
to  the  horse  to  hide  his  feeling. 

"  "Well,  I  suppose  it 's  all  right  ?"  said  the  horse-dealer.  "  Here 's 
my  commission  too,  with  the  order  for  the  new  saddle  and 
bridle ;"  and  he  put  an  open  letter  into  farmer  Smith's  hand. 
"  As  to  what  he  says  upon  paying  my  charge  on  the  commission, 
that 's  all  paid  already  in  the  pleasure  of  the  job — I  can  say  I 
never  had  a  pleasanter ;  and  if  such  a  lad  does  not  turn  out  well, 
1  don't  know  who  will." 

"  Who 's  done  it,  father  ?"  a.sked  Rose. 

"  Why  Joe  himself !"  said  her  father ;  "  he  says  he  has  never 
spent  a  sixpence  he  could  help,  for  fear  he  might  not  have  the 
money  ready  when  an  opportunity  of  buying  the  creatui  e  might 
come !" 


866  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Well  done,  Joe  !"  said  Ted.  "  I  '11  be  up  to  you,  when  I  'm 
a  sailor,  tliough !" 

"  WTiy,  it's  master  Joe  !  it's  master  Joe  has  done  it  himsell*'" 
was  repeated  among  the  men ;  and  casting  a  pleased  expressive 
look  at  the  father  of  such  a  son,  they  began  to  disperse  to  their 
homes,  to  tell  them  how  master  Joe  had  never  rested  till  he 
brought  back  the  black  horse  to  his  father's  stable  !  Mrs.  Smith 
gave  the  letter  to  her  husband,  and  turned  within  doors,  glad  at 
that  moment  to  escape  observation. 

"  "Well,  you  will  be  thinking,  I  suppose,  of  leading  him  ofip  to 
his  stable  ?"  said  the  horse-dealer.  "  I  wish  you  joy  of  him,  and 
twenty  times  more  of  such  a  son !  And  then  I  will  just  step  in 
with  you,  for  I  am  altogether  done  up  with  my  day's  work." 
Ted  led  the  horse,  and  farmer  Smith  followed,  and  Jem  to  un- 
saddle him,  and  Rose  followed  also.  Ted  made  all  haste  to  give 
the  horse  a  feed,  but  the  creature,  while  he  stooped  to  receive  it, 
looked  round,  as  if  something  were  missing.  "Come,  Black 
Beauty,  eat !"  said  Ted,  impatient  to  give  the  first  food  ;  but  the 
horse,  while  he  stooped  his  head  in  obedience,  still  lifted  his 
large  eye,  and  looked  to  the  door. 

"Look,  father,  what's  the  matter?"  said  Ted,  "Black  Beauty 
won't  eat!" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Rose,  "  do  n't  say  a  word,  he  is  watching 
for  little  Tim !  Here,  put  his  food  in  the  manger,  he  will  eat 
when  we  are  gone  ;  and  come  in  to  tea,  do,  Ted ;  you  have  had 
nothing  since  breakfast !" 

So  Ted  spread  out  the  food  in  the  manger,  and  followed  his 
father  and  the  horse-dealer,  with  Rose,  in  to  tea. 

"What's  the  matter,  mother?"  asked  Ted,  as  his  mother 
stooped  to  tuck  him  up  in  his  little  bed  that  night. 

"  Nothing,  dear,"  answered  his  mother ;  "  only  I  was  thinking 
bow  good  Joe  had  been  !" 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  €61 

*  Well,  mother,  I  would  wait  till  Joe  was  bad,  before  I  cried 
about  bim  !"  said  Ted. 

"  Ab,  Ted,"  replied  bis  motber,  "  perbaps  you  may  know  some 
day  wbat  it  is  to  sbed  a  tear  for  goodness  you  don't  deserve ;  for 
the  Lord's  goodness,  if  not  for  man's  !" 

"  But  was  tbat  all  you  were  tbinking  of,  motber  ?"  asked  Ted, 
concerned  at  tbe  sigbt  of  bis  motbei's  tears. 

"  Well,  I  was  tbinking  of  Httle  Tim,  and  bow  deligbted  be 
would  bave  been  to  see  tbe  borse  come  back." 

"  Well,  motber,  you  need  not  cry  about  bim ;  we  read  in  our 
class  to  tbe  Minister  bow  tbey  ride  on  wbite  borses  in  Heaven  ! 
and  be  is  better  off  tbere,  motber." 

"  So  be  is,  dear  !"  replied  Mrs.  Smitb  ;  and  kissing  ber  boy, 
sbe  left  bim  to  sleep  on  bis  pillow,  and  turned  away  to  tbink 
of  ber  cbildren  on  Eartb,  and  ber  youngest  in  glory  in 
Heaven. 

Tben  came  tbe  warm  brigbt  barvest  montb,  July ;  and  before 
tbe  sickle  was  put  to  tbe  corn,  William  was  to  return.  And 
Joe  got  leave  of  a  few  days'  absence  also,  baving  obtained  a 
bertb  for  Ted  on  board  a  mercbant-sbip.  Tbe  two  brothers 
traveled  outside  tbe  coach.  Ob,  what  a  day  was  tbat  for 
William  !  all  bis  best  hopes  fulfilled,  and  he  returning,  after  so 
many  years  of  absence,  to  live  at  home  again  and  farm  bis 
father's  land !  Chestnut  was  put  in  the  gig ;  and  Ted  was  to 
lide  Black  Beauty  for  William,  with  the  new  saddle  and  bridle. 
What  care  bad  been  taken  to  rub  down  the  glossy  coat  of  Black 
Beauty,  to  comb  bis  mane,  and  show  bim  to  best  effect !  All 
day  the  farm  had  been  in  commotion ;  Patience  scrubbing  and 
cleaning  the  always  clean  bouse ;  Mrs.  Smitb  baking  ber 
largest  variety  of  best  approved  viands ;  Rose  banging  the  new 
little  curtains  she  had  made  at  the  window  of  what  was  now 
to  be  William's  room  ;  men  and  boys  getting  all  things  in  thcii 


SbO  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

best  order — in  preparation  for  Master  William's  return !  whil» 
Ted  devoted  himself  exclusively  and  entirely  to  tlie  grooming  of 
Black  Beauty.  Then  came  the  starting-time,  when  farmer  Smith 
drove  ofl  in  the  gig,  and  Ted — in  blue  jacket  and  straw  hat — on 
Black  Beauty,  who  ambled  and  capered  along  as  if  he  knew  it 
to  be  a  festive  occasion. 

"  Ah !  you  good  old  fellow,"  said  Ted,  "  you  little  think  who 
you  will  have  to  bring  home  again  with  you  !" 

Mrs.  Smith  watched  from  the  door  till  the  gig  and  the  horse 
were  out  of  sight,  then  turned  within  to  hasten  preparations  with 
Rose.  The  coach  was  still  miles  away,  when  the  gig  and  Black 
Beauty  made  their  halt  at  the  next  village  inn ;  but  after  long 
waiting,  a  cloud  of  dust  came  in  sight — then  the  four  gray  horses, 
and  men's  hats  on  the  top  of  the  coach.  Now  Ted  had  made 
Black  Beauty  stand  full  in  view  across  the  road,  while  he  con- 
cealed himself  behind  the  gig. 

"  There 's  father !"  said  William,  and  standing  up  he  seemed 
ready  to  spring  from  the  top  of  the  coach,  before  ever  it  stopped 
at  the  inn.  And  then,  in  a  minute  more,  he  added,  "  Why,  Joe, 
I  declare,  if  there  is  n't  Black  Beauty  waiting  for  some  one !  how 
unfortunate,  just  when  father's  come  there !" 

"  O,  father 's  got  over  all  that  now,"  said  Joe,  "  and  does  not 
mind  the  sight  of  him  the  least." 

William  looked  at  Joe  as  if  he  doubted  not  only  the  fact,  but 
also  that  Joe  could  suppose  forgetfulness  possible ;  but  he  said 
nothing,  and  the  coach  stopped,  and  William  was  the  first  to  set 
foot  on  the  ground,  and  he  wrung  his  father's  hand  with  a  grasp 
that  said  more  than  words ;  and  then — quite  unable  to  resist  the 
temptation,  turned  to  speak  to  Black  Beauty.  The  faithful  crea- 
ture knew  his  young  master,  and  had  chafed  and  stamped  after 
William's  descent  from  the  coach  till  he  turned  and  laid  his  hand 
«pon  his  neck. 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  369 

"  Why  Ted,  my  boy,  what  are  you  doing  here  ?"  said  William, 
suddenly  perceiving  his  young  brother. 

"  Holding  your  horse  for  you,  sir  !" 

"OTed,  Ted!"  said  William,  half  reproachfully,  *-do  you 
know  who  the  horse  is  waiting  for  ?" 

"  For  you,  sir !" 

"  Come,  come  !"  said  William,  "  no  joking  about  that !  Now, 
father,  if  Joe  has  the  luggage,  we  '11  be  off." 

Joe  had  been  engaged  in  securing  what  William  had  seemed 
to  have  forgotten,  and  then  stepping  to  Black  Beauty's  side,  Joe 
took  the  bridle  from  Ted,  and  putting  it  in  William's  hand,  said, 
"  Your  merchant-brother,  William,  has  bought  him  back — the 
first-fruits  of  his  earnings  !" 

"  You  don't  mean  it !"  said  William. 

"  Yes,  Will,  but  I  do ;  and  none  can  say  he  is  the  worse  for 
being  twice  bought  and  sold  for  the  sake  of  a  brother  !"  Wil- 
liam looked  at  Joe — and  that  look  was  enough,  but  still  he 
said  in  a  low  tone,  "  O  Joe,  I  little  thought  of  this,  when  you 
were  so  bent  on  saving !"  And  he  sprang  on  Black  Beauty, 
who  knew  his  rider,  and  gently  rearing,  darted  forward  on — by 
the  well-known  lanes,  past  the  old  familiar  fields  where  every 
tree  and  hedge-row  seemed  to  greet  his  return ;  on — out  of 
sight  and  sound  of  the  tardier  steed  behind  him,  swiftly  on,  his 
horse  bore  him,  to  the  home  of  his  heart  and  toil !  There,  in 
that  sweet  summer  evening,  his  mother  stood  and  watched  with 
Rose,  not  on  the  door-step,  but  beside  the  garden-gate ;  while 
Rover,  at  the  first  cadence  of  Black  Beauty's  measured  trot, 
bounded  down  the  sloping  greensward,  and  heanng  his  master's 
greeting  whistle,  tried  once  and  again  to  leap  upon  his  hor-se, 
and  welcome  him  there.  But  on  Black  Beauty  bore  his  rider-'- 
till  he  sprang  from  the  saddle  to  meet  his  mother's  kiss  and  tear 
t>f  welcome,  and  fold  his  sister  to  his  heart ;  while  Black  Bea'itv 


870  MINISTERING     CHILD  HEN. 

stood  imheld  beside  liim,  looking  on  as  if  witli  sympathizing 
feelings. 

It  was  finally  decided  by  force  of  William's  and  Joe's  per 
suasions,  that  as  there  was  yet  a  fortnight  at  least  before  harvest, 
farmer  and  Mrs.  Smith  should  accompany  Joe  and  Ted  on  their 
return  to  London,  to  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Ted's  cap- 
tain and  ship,  and  for  their  own  refi'eshment  and  interest; 
while  William  and  Eose  kept  the  farm  and  house  at  home. 
So  they  went  up  accordingly,  Ted  in  high  spirits  at  the  prospect 
before  him,  with  William's  full  approval  of  the  attainments  he 
had  made ;  and  neither  father  nor  mother  harassed  by  any  home 
anxieties  to  lessen  the  pleasure  of  their  visit.  The  novelty  of 
the  complete  change  was  very  beneficial  to  both  farmer  and 
Mrs.  Smith.  They  were  most  kindly  entertained  by  their  chil- 
dren's friends ;  the  old  merchant  receiving  them  at  his  country- 
house  to  dinner,  and  promising  Mrs.  Smith  the  first  opportunity 
that  offered,  to  come  down  and  spend  a  day  or  two  at  the  farm, 
adding  that  he  should  take  care  to  bring  her  son  Joseph  with 
him,  for  he  was  quite  sure  he  was  a  son  that  never  went  down 
to  his  home  without  a  welcome  for  himself  and  all  he  took 
with  him  !  Mrs.  Smith  confessed  that  London  was  not  so  bad 
as  she  expected,  and  might  do  very  well  for  people  not  used  to 
the  country !  Joe  insisted  on  paying  all  the  expenses  of  the 
visit,  which  he  said  was  a  pleasure  his  labor  had  earned — and 
that  having  bought  back  Black  Beauty,  had  his  parents  in 
London,  and  obtained  a  place  on  shipboard  for  Ted — he  should 
begin  life  again  with  fresh  spirit,  but  with,  he  still  hoped,  the 
same  principles.  Ted  was  left  with  Joe  and  Samson,  ready  to 
take  his  place  on  board  ship  as  soon  as  necessary ;  and  farmer 
and  Mrs.  Smith  returned,  greatly  refreshed  and  benefited  by  the 
inspiriting  change. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  after  their  return,  William  asked 


MINISTERING     CHILDIIEN.  371 

both  his  father  and  mother  to  take  a  walk  acrc:>-i  the  farm  with 
him  and  Rose,  to  which  they  agreed  and  started;  but  Rose 
seemed  to  find  it  difficult  to  keep  his  meditative  pace ;  while 
William,  with  gravest  composure,  walked  and  talked  at  their 
side.  Rose  was  always  before  them,  leading  the  way,  till  at 
last  they  came  in  sight  of  the  two  white  little  cottages  with 
gardens  stretching  at  either  end,  built  by  farmer  Smith's  mother, 
and  lost  by  him  through  means  of  the  only  loan  he  ever  bor- 
rowed. Rose  still  led  the  way,  till  her  parents  had  nearly 
reached  them,  then  turning  round,  she  looked  all  expectation  at 
William. 

"  O  you  secret-keeper !"  said  he, "  you  would  tell  it  twenty  times 
over !     I  shall  know  how  to  trust  you  again !" 

"  Why,  Will,  I  never  said  a  word  !"  replied  Rose,  coming  to 
his  side. 

"  No,  nor  much  need  you  should !"  he  answered,  smiling.  And 
then  turning  to  his  father  he  said,  "  There,  father,  it  was  grand- 
mother's cottages  kept  me  this  last  year  in  London  !" 

"  Your  grandmother's  cottages  !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Because,  father,  when  I  went  away  from  home,  I  came  the 
last  thing  and  looked  at  them,  and  I  resolved  I  never  would 
leave  business  in  London — if  I  could  help  it,  till  I  had  bought 
them  back  for  you  !  I  got  put  from  it  twice,  with  getting  Joe 
ap  and  Samson,  but  I  kept  on  at  my  aim.  Joe  and  I  shared 
one  room  as  we  did  at  home,  and  no  one  would  have  believed, 
perhaps,  for  how  little  we  managed  ;  but  I  found  last  year  the 
man  had  no  mind  to  part  with  them,  and  I  was  forced  to  offer 
a  higher  sura  than  I  had  by  mo,  so  the  purchase  was  fixed  for 
this  year — and  I  stayed  on  to  earn  .t.  And  now,  mother,  if 
farming  quite  fails,  there 's  a  cottage  rent-free  for  you  and  father 
and  Rose,  and  another  beside  it  for  me — and  my  hands  will  be 
able,  I  should  hope,  with  God's  blessings  to  ea'xi  bread  for  us  all ! 


372  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

They  are  bought  in  father's  name,  and  are  as  much  his  ag 
they  ever  were.  I  know  that  was  the  best  sheaf  I  could 
reap  and  bring  home  for  him  and  for  you  ! " 

This  was  true — no  earthly  gift  could  perhaps  have  so  met 
and  gratified  farmer  Smith.  His  mother's  cottages,  left  to 
him  by  will,  lost  by  debt,  and  now  restored  by  his  son — 
effacing  the  memory  of  the  loss  to  him  so  painful,  were  a 
treasured  possession  indeed ! 

"  There's  a  refuge  then,  at  least,  now,  mother !  "  said 
William,  as  his  mother  turned  silently  to  take  his  arm  home. 

"  Yes,  Will,  my  son's  refuge  for  me  on  Earth  :  and,  I  trust, 
my  Saviour's  in  Heaven  I" 

So  William,  returned  to  his  home,  and  began  life  as  a 
farmer  again. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

"God  aettetli  the  solitary  in  fiunilies."— Psaxm  Ixrill.  6. 

"  For  with  the  same  measure  that  ye  mete  withal,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again  * 
—LuKS  vi  88. 

rriHE  sun  rose  bright  one  summer  morning,  over  tlie  misty  vil- 
-^  lage,  over  the  Hall  with  its  long  verdant  slopes  and  spreading 
woods,  over  the  farm  with  its  barns  and  stacks  and  sleeping  cat- 
tle, over  the  lonely  cottage  of  Jem — ^where  fruitfulness  and 
luxuriance  in  trees,  and  vegetables,  and  flowers,  bore  witness  to 
"  the  hand  of  the  dilio^ent  which  maketh  rich."  The  villasfe  was 
still  asleep,  but  Jem  was  in  his  garden,  "  tighting  it  up"  as  ho 
called  it,  though  all  looked  tight  enough,  and  neither  leaf  nor 
petal,  tree  nor  flower,  seemed  there,  on  that  bright  morning,  to 
show  one  trace  of  Earth's  decay.  Jem  was  not  watching  the 
sun  to  tell  the  time  at  which  to  start  off"  to  tend  his  sheep,  this 
was  no  day  of  pastoral  work  for  Jem,  but  a  day  of  rest,  and 
gladness,  and  blessing — it  was  the  wedding-day  of  honest  faith- 
ful Jem.  Nearly  two  years  he  had  held  his  new  abode ;  his 
mother  grew  more  feeble  with  advancing  age,  and  Jem  thought 
to  add  comfort  to  her  life,  as  well  as  his  own,  by  the  event  of 
that  day.  So  thought  Jem's  aged  mother  also ;  and  when  the 
sun  sent  forth  his  first  golden  beam  through  her  lattice-window 
on  that  bright  morning,  she  had  left  her  pillow,  and  was  prepar- 
ing to  put  all  things  "  straight"  within  doors :  and  all  the  while 
she  stirred  about  with  her  best  strength,  she  said  wHhin  her- 
self, "  How  tight  and  clean  she  will  keep  all  when  she  takes 


874  MINISTERING    CHILDREN.  ' 

charge !  I  know  she  will,  and  comfort  me  up  too,  and  learn 
me  a  deal  more  of  Heavenly  things  than  I  can  come  al 
now!" 

At  the  Hall,  Mercy  was  up,  before  the  lark  had  risen  to 
chant  his  first  glad  song  at  Heaven's  gate,  and  now  she  has- 
tened down  thejnisty  road,  with  her  bridesmaid's  attire  in  a 
handkerchief  on  her  arm,  to  help  her  grandmother  put  all 
things  straight,  and  then  to  hasten  on  to  stand  beside  the 
bride. 

Mrs.  Smith  might  have  been  up  since  midnight — for  all  the 
sun  could  tell  when  he  first  looked  across  the  farm  and  glanced 
in  radiance  through  its  uncurtained  window-panes.  Rose  was 
moving,  working,  speaking,  as  quick  again  as  usual — as  if  all 
the  labor  of  that  day  had  to  be  completed  before  the  day  had 
well  begun.  Farmer  Smith  was  out  in  the  freshening  morning 
air,  giving  directions  to  his  men ;  and  William  was  helping  the 
yard-boy  sweep  the  garden  walks,  and  the  path  down  the  sloping 
greensward.  And  where  was  Patience — -the  faithful  servant  al- 
ways at  hand  when  work  was  to  be  done,  the  faithful  servant 
through  years  of  trial,  sorrow,  peace — where  was  Patience? 
Kneehng  alone  in  her  chamber,  looking  up  through  its  small 
window  to  the  rosy  sky  above  her  head,  thinking  on  the  past, 
the  present,  and  the  future,  till  tears  overflowed  her  eyes,  and 
she  hid  her  face  and  wept ;  then  enshrining  all  her  thoughts 
and  feelings  in  one  fervent  thanksgiving  and  prayer,  she  went 
down  to  the  family  below.  This  was  her  wedding-day,  and  she 
the  afl5anced  bride  of  Jem. 

"  Tliere  now,  child,  we  don't  want  you  standing  about  in  the 
way !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Smith,  as  she  saw  Patience  looking  on,  at 
a  loss  how  to  act  without  being  told.  "  Go  and  be  after  any 
thing  you  may  want  to  get  done,"  added  Mrs.  Smith.  So  Pa- 
tience had  her  time  to  herself.     Rose  at  last  went  to  put  on  hei 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  375 

biidesmaid's  dress ;  and  Mercy  came  down  to  the  farm  in  her'&— 
and  slie  dressed  the  bride ;  and  William  put  on  his  Sunday  suit 
for  he  was  to  walk  by  the  side  of  the  bride  and  give  her  away 
in  the  Church — ^for  she  had  no  relative  on  Earth  to  stand  beside 
her  there.  But  before  they  set  out,  Mrs.  Smith  said  to  Patience 
alone,  "  Patience,  girl,  I  know  they  say  black  should  never  be 
worn  at  a  wedding !  but  you  won't  be  against  my  wearing  that 
black  silk,  as  I  always  do  on  Sundays,  for  the  sake  of  little  Tim  ? 
Not  but  what  I  know  his  robes  are  as  white  as  the  driven  snow, 
but  I  did  not  hke  for  myself  any  other  color  in  silk,  and  being 
for  him — it  could  not  tell  of  any  evil  to  come !  I  know  you 
won't  mind,  but  I  thought  I  would  just  name  it  beforehand." 
Patience  answered  with  a  tear ;  for  she  too  had  been  thinking 
of  the  child,  and  how  he  had  been  her  little  comforter  there, 
and  how  he  loved  Jem !  and  she  could  not  help  wishing  he  could 
be  with  them  then,  though  still  she  knew  it  was  better  to 
have  entered  Heaven — safe  from  all  changes,  and  sorrow  and 
sin. 

Widow  Jones  did  not  go  to  the  church ;  nor  would  she  con- 
sent to  lock  up  the  cottage  and  come  to  the  wedding-feast  at 
the  farm.  She  said  she  was  wanted  "  to  keep  things  straight  at 
home ;"  whether  she  knew  some  mischievous  spider  to  be  lurk- 
ing in  some  hole  or  corner,  all  ready  to  disfigure  the  pattern  of 
neatness  she  had  finished  ofi"  within ;  or  whether  she  wished  to 
be  there  to  give  Jem  and  his  bride  a  motherly  greeting  at  the 
threshold  of  their  home,  she  did  not  say ;  the  only  reason  she 
gave  was  the  "keeping  things  straight,"  and  this  one  word 
"  straight"  with  widow  Jones  admitted  a  meaning  so  full,  and 
application  so  endless,  that  it  often  might  baffle  the  learning  of 
most  to  discover  the  precise  point  she  had  in  view  under  this 
word  of  universal  use  !  And  it  proved  well  that  widow  Jones 
did  keep  her  resolve  to  "bide  in  the  house,"  for  reasons  fei 


376  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

more  important  than  keeping  dust  or  spiders  at  distance,  with 
apron  or  broom. 

A  dependable  man  and  boy  were  in  waiting  at  tbe  farm,  and 
no  sooner  was  the  bridal  party  oflf  for  the  church,  than  Mrs. 
Smith  said  to  her  husband,  "Now,  don't  lose  a  minute,  for 
things  are  quicker  done  than  you  would  think  for,  and  they 
will  be  back  in  no  time!"  So  saying,  Mrs.  Smith  hastened 
off  with  farmer  Smith  and  the  dependable  man  and  boy  to  the 
inirther  bam,  w^here  the  wedding-gifts  had  been  placed  in  readi- 
ness by  William  that  morning.  Mrs.  Smith  looked  upon  them 
with  fresh  satisfaction.  She  had  said,  "  The  girl  has  served  me 
like  a  child,  and  she  shall  not  be  sent  away  like  a  stranger !" 
And  no  one  who  looked  into  the  bam  that  morning,  could  doubt 
Mrs.  Smith  having  kept  her  resolve.  First  stood  the  gift  of  her 
mistress  to  Patience,  the  prettiest  of  young  cows,  as  black  as  a 
raven's  wing,  with  one  star  of  white  on  its  broad  forehead. 
Rose  had  named  it  "  Black  Beauty,"  after  the  favorite  horse. 
Mrs.  Smith  said,  that  as  a  bit  of  meadow-land  went  with  the 
cottage,  there  could  be  no  reason  why  Patience  should  not  have 
a  cow  of  her  own,  and  sell  milk  to  the  poor !  which  was  a  thing, 
Mrs.  Smith  said,  that  wanted  to  be  more  done  than  it  was ;  she 
was  thankful  that  for  her  part  she  could  say,  that  never  with 
her  knowledge,  had  the  poor  been  sent  away  with  an  empty 
can,  when  they  came  up  to  buy  a  little  milk  for  their  families  ! 
Mrs.  Smith  knew  how  to  give  generously  when  she  did  give, 
and  beside  the  young  cow,  stood  a  new  milk-pail,  two  milk- 
pans,  a  cream-pot,  and  skimmer ;  all  these  Were  the  wedding- 
gifts  of  her  mistress  to  Patience.  But  then  Patience  had  been 
no  common  servant — ^the  nurse  and  comforter  of  little  Tim,  her 
mistress's  own  devoted  nurse — when  infection  and  death  were 
near,  and  in  her  service  faithful  in  all  things — this  had  Patience 
1,  and  her  mistress  was  resolved  to  testify  her  sense  of  it 


MINISTERING     CniLDREN.  37l 

Next  stood  the  gift  of  Rose  to  Patience :  a  pair  of  hens  of  per- 
fect whiteness,  with  a  black  cock,  all  reared  on  the  farm.  The 
fowls  were  in  a  basket,  chiefly  constructed  by  the  hands  of  the 
sailor-boy,  his  mother  bestowed  on  Patience,  having  another 
of  a  different  kind  herself;  for  she  said,  that  to  leave  her  sailor- 
boy  out,  would  look  as  if  he  were  no  longer  one  of  themselves  I 
In  a  corner  of  the  bfeirn  a  little  black  pig  was  inclosed,  waiting 
for  his  removal  to  fresh  quarters — ^this  was  farmer  Smith's  gift 
to  his  servant  Jem.  Added  to  these  was  a  new  barrow,  made 
at  the  village  wheelwright's,  a  famous  substitute  for  the  one  that 
Jem  had  used  from  a  child,  and  which  the  largest  nails  would 
now  hardly  avail  to  hold  together — ^this  was  William's  present 
to  his  favorite  fann-servanti  But  these  were  not  all :  Mrs. 
Smith  had  a  maxim  vfhich  she  often  used,  applying  it  variously 
as  occasion  served,  and  this  was  the  maxim,  "  There's  no  good 
in  remembering  one  to  forget  another!"  Accordingly  Mrs. 
Smith  said  she  was  not  going  to  overlook  Jem,  as  if  she  had 
altogether  forgotten  the  value  to  be  set  by  his  services.  What 
she  had  saved  by  his  care  in  eggs  and  young  fowls  when  he 
was  yard-boy,  she  said  she  knew  pretty  well  by  the  loss  when 
his  master  took  him  away  to  make  him  a  shepherd — she  had 
never  been  able  to  get  up,  or  keep,  such  a  poultry-yard  since. 
But  Jem  should  see  his  mistress  had  not  forgotten  him  !  And 
there,  in  demonstration  of  the  fact,  stood  a  small  box  containing 
household  Hnen,  all  bleached  and  made  by  Mrs.  Smith.  In  this 
same  box  was  a  shawl  from  Samson,  chosen  and  bought  by  him 
in  his  uncle's  shop,  and  sent  down  from  London  for  Patience. 
While,  from  all  the  great  city  could  offer,  Joe  had  chosen  for 
Jem  an  engraving  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  with  the  sheep 
gathered  near  Him,  when  He  said  to  Peter,  "Feed  my 
Lambs :"  and  having  it  put  in  a  frame,  with  a  glass  before 
it,  Joe  sent  it  down  to  gleam  from  the  cottage  walls  of  the 


3l8  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

Tillage  sliepherd,  with  its  light  of  holy  and  blessed  remeK 
brance. 

No  sooner  did  Mrs.  Smith  with  hasty  step  arrive  at  the  barn, 
tban  the  whole  array  of  gifts  began  to  receive  their  dismissal. 
Farmer  Smith  haltered  the  young  cow  and  led  her  himself; 
while  a  tumbril  received  all  the  rest,  as  nicely  adjusted  as  the 
case  admitted  of — ^the  boy  down  in  the  midst  securing  the  little 
black  pig,  the  box  in  the  barrow,  and  the  fowls  on  the  top  of 
the  box,  while  the  milk-pail  with  its  bright  rims,  the  dairy  pans, 
cream-pot,  and  skimmer,  were  all  settled  in ;  and  the  tumbril 
drove  off. 

Farmer  Smith  arrived  first  with  the  young  black  cow — 
widow  Jones  in  the  midst  of  her  business  within,  was  still  look- 
ing from  time  to  time  from  the  window,  to  see  what  might  be 
liappening  without.  And  now  she  saw  farmer  Smith  at  the 
stile  with  the  cow.  "  Why,  if  there  isn't  our  master  himself, 
and  that  handsome  black  heifer  !"  said  widow  Jones,  with  sur- 
prise ;  and  making  haste  from  the  door,  she  got  down  to  the 
stile  just  as  fanner  Smith  had  succeeded  in  removing  it  to  lead 
in  the  cow.  "  Well,  neighbor,"  said  kind  farmer  Smith,  in  hi? 
most  cheerful,  pleasant  tone, — which  tone  always  rose  up  as 
by  instinct  when  his  words  had  to  do  with  a  gift  or  any  token 
of  goodwill, — "Well,  neighbor,  I  am  sure  I  wish  you  joy  of 
to-day;  though  you  will  just  please  to  remember  that  you  are 
growing  rich  by  making  us  poorer  !  I  don't  mean  because  the 
black  heifer  is  to  stay  as  yours,  instead  of  ours — no,  I  don't 
mean  it  of  any  thing  money  could  have  bought — but  for  her 
who's  your  daughter  by  this  time,  if  the  Minister  kept  to  his 
nour  at  the  church.  I  made  her  servant-girl  to  my  wdfe,  who 
must  choose  for  herself  now — for  I  am  sure  I  can't  hope  to 
please  her  so  well  any  more !"  Widow  Jones  stood  in  silent 
surprise.     The  lilack  heifer  for  them !     Could  it  possibly  be, 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  8^9 

that  farmer  Smith  had  led  down  the  handsomest  of  all  his  yovng 
cows  for  her  children!  "Come,  then,"  said  farmer  Smith,  "there's 
plenty  more  things  on  the  way,  let's  make  one  safe  at  a  time. 
You  tell  Patience,  her  mistress  has  sent  her  this  cow,  with  her 
love  and  her  blessing;  and  there's  a  milk-pail  and  pans,  and  a 
cream-pot  and  skimmer,  that  Patience  may  sell  milk  to  the 
poor;  for  it's  a  fact  in  this  village,  that  the  poor  often  don't 
know  how  to  get  half  a  pint,  and  I  wish  that  some  one  would 
name  it  to  the  Squire,  that  he  might  just  speak  to  his  tenants 
about  it !"  O  with  what  wondering  eyes  of  delight  and  of  joy 
poor  old  widow  Jones  looked  on,  while  her  master,  as  she 
always  called  farmer  Smith,  led  up  the  black  heifer  and  made 
her  fast  in  the  warmly-thatched  shed  !  But  there  was  no  time 
allowed  for  expressing  her  feeling;  fanner  Smith  hastened 
back  to  the  stile  where  the  tumbril  was  waiting,  and  widow 
Jones  hastened  after,  and  then  she  stood  by  w^hile  its  stores 
were  unloaded.  Out  tumbled  the  little  black  pig,  and  the  boy 
jumped  down  just  in  time  to  secure  him :  then  the  milk-pail 
and  milk-pans,  the  cream-pot  and  skimmer ;  the  box  tied 
round  with  a  cord  and  directed ;  the  handsome  white  and  black 
fowls  ;  and,  last  of  all,  the  new  barrow  for  Jem.  Farmer  Smith 
gave  the  messages  one  by  one  to  widow  Jones,  who  stood  listen- 
ing beside  him  in  the  midst  of  the  things ;  there  she  stood  in 
her  short-sleeved,  half-length,  large-flowered,  print  bedgown, 
bought  new  for  the  wedding  occasion,  and  put  on  first  by  her 
that  day,  her  snow-white  kerchief  beneath  it  with  its  thick  folds 
in  front,  and  her  single-crimped  bordered  cap  with  a  scarlet 
ribbon  pinned  round  it — saving  all  need  of  strings,  and  her 
white  apron  tied  on,  all  ready  for  whatever  on  that  summer-day 
might  befall ;  there  she  stood  wiping  away  with  the  coiner  oi 
her  apron  her  fast-starting  tears,  as  she  hstened  to  farmer  Smith 
and  looked  on  the  gifts — all  telling  the  praises,  so  sweet  to  her^ 


880  MINISTERING    CHILDREN. 

Oi  her  Jem  and  his  bride  !  "The  box,"  said  fanner  Smith,  "will 
speak  for  itself  when  it 's  opened,  which  need  not  be  done  till 
your  children  return.  The  fowls  are  from  Rose,  her  present  tc 
Patience ;  my  wife  says  Patience  will  know  who  made  the 
basket,  and  she  is  to  keep  it  for  our  poor  sailor  boy's  sake.  My 
son  William  had  the  barrow  made  on  purpose  for  Jem  :  he  says 
Jem  is  not  to  think  too  much  about  him  in  the  gift,  for  he  had 
it  made  as  much  in  remembrance  of  our  poor  little  Tim,  who 
always  took  such  a  fancy  to  Jem  :  my  son  had  a  wish  that  Jem 
should  have  something  to  serve  him  through  life,  in  remembrance 
of  the  child.  But  I  must  be  off,  for  my  wife  entirely  set  her 
mind  on  my  being  and  knowing  the  things  safe  here,  before 
they  returned  from  the  church."  So  farmer  Smith  saw  the  little 
black  pig  secure  in  the  stye ;  and  then  leaving  the  man  and 
the  boy  to  help  in  with  the  rest,  he  hastened  back  again  to  the 
farm. 

Mrs.  Smith  was  impatiently  waiting  her  husband's  return,  and 
losing  more  time  by  her  looks  from  window  and  door  than  she 
gained  by  her  haste  in  all  things  beside.  But  now  seeing  him 
ascending  the  hill,  she  was  satisfied ;  she  heard  of  the  safe  bestow- 
ment  of  all,  the  messages  delivered  as  she  had  given  them  in 
charge ;  and  then  bringing  out  farmer  Smith's  Sunday  coat,  she 
waited  in  something  more  like  quiet  expectation  for  the  brida) 
party's  return  from  the  church. 

And  now  in  the  distance  the  party  came  in  sight.  Jem  led 
his  bride.  Rose  and  Mercy  followed  after,  and  William  beside 
them.  Mrs.  Smith  gave  one  hasty  glance  into  her  parlor  tc 
be  assured  all  was  right  there,  then  hastened  to  the  door-step 
to  receive  them.  Fanner  Smith  held  open  the  small  garden- 
gate,  and  gave  them  his  hand,  and  blessed  them  as  they  entered ; 
then  smiled  on  Rose  and  Mercy,  and  shut  the  gate  after  them 
all.    There  stood  Mrs.  Smith,  in  her  Sunday  gown  of  black  silk, 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  881 

upright  on  the*  door-step,  but  when  Jem  led  up  his  bride,  she 
stooped  her  tall  figure,  and  kissed  the  cheek  of  Patience,  and 
led  her  in  herself,  as  with  a  mother's  feeling.  The  water  was 
boiling,  so  the  tea  was  soon  made ;  the  coffee  was  ready  before- 
hand; and  full  of  gentlest  cheerfulness  they  all  sat  down  to 
the  wedding-breakfast.  Mrs.  Smith  poured  out  the  tea,  and 
Rose  the  coffee ;  Jem  and  his  bride  sat  on  one  side  of  the 
table ;  and  Mercy  between  farmer  Smith  and  William  on  the 
other.  No  pains  had  been  spared  in  preparing  the  feast :  a 
plum-cake,  black  with  richness,  was  placed  in  the  center ;  it 
was  not  frosted  over  with  snow,  which  the  art  of  the  confec- 
tioners alone  can  accomplish  —  such  borrowed  skill  was  not 
needed  at  their  wedding-feast,  nor  would  Mrs.  Smith  have  seen 
the  merit  of  cmsting  a  cake  with  a  coating  of  ice  for  a  table, 
round  which  only  affection  could  gather.  Ornaments  they  had 
— nature's  own,  and  not  wanting  in  taste  of  arrangement. 
Rose  had  gathered  white  lilies,  and  laid  them  all  over  and  in  a 
circle  round  the  large  cake  which  her  mother  had  made ;  and 
strewn  on  the  white  table-cloth,  in  long  winding  lines,  lay  the 
flowers  of  the  season  reposing ;  while  round  the  plate  of  the 
bridegroom  and  bride  bloomed  a  circle  of  nothing  but  heart's- 
easCc  Among  the  frail  flowers  stood  the  solid  mass  of  the 
dishes — a  great  pie  filled  with  rabbits,  a  ham  dressed  for  the 
0(3casion,  a  fresh-cut  cheese  from  the  dairy,  with  butter  made 
into  swans  that  floated  in  a  lake  of  water,  or  reposed  on  green 
borders  of  parsley.  Each  corner-dish  was  a  large  shining  loaf, 
with  a  circle  of  smallest  loaves  in  the  plate  round  it.  Cakes  of 
every  description — all  home-made,  with  fruits  from  the  garden ; 
sweet  wine  in  glass  decanters ;  and  a  tankard  for  ale.  While 
the  faces  around  looked  do\vn  on  those  smiling  flowers,  and  the 
fingers  of  tenderest  care  still  on  all  sides  removed  them — when 
any  change  of  the  dishes  might  have  pressed  on  their  forms  :  foi 


382  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

the  recklessness  that  can  gather  together  the  faiiest  flowers  of 
the  Earth,  to  please  the  eye  of  those  who  will  take  no  care  to 
preserve  their  frail  Heaven-given  loveliness,  is  not  found  in  the 
poor  man's  home,  nor  in  the  dwellings  of  those  who  sow  and 
reap  the  ground. 

Meanwhile,  at  the  cottage,  widow  Jones  had  scarcely  marked 
the  progress  of  time,  intent  on  the  interests  of  her  newly  arrived 
charge.  "  Pretty  creatures  !"  said  widow  Jones,  "  sure  enough  I 
must  find  them  some  food!"  So  stooping  down  her  aged 
figure,  she  cut  up  some  grass  and  mixed  it  with  such  leaves  as  a 
cow,  she  well  knew,  would  like,  and  then  strewed  it  before 
the  black  heifer,  who  hcked  the  old  woman's  hand  before  feed- 
ing, as  she  used  to  do  the  hand  of  Patience — who  had  brought 
her  up  from  a  calf :  then,  having  no  corn  of  any  description, 
widow  Jones  crumbled  up  a  small  piece  of  bread  for  the  fowls, 
though  she  said  at  she  showered  it  over  them,  that  it  would 
have  been  a  shame  on  any  other  day  to  give  them  such  food  ! 
And,  finally,  she  cut  up  a  few  vegetables  for  the  pig.  The 
creatures  all  liking  their  food,  and  the  notice  bestowed  on  them 
in  their  strange  quarters,  called  after  the  dear  old  woman,  till 
she  heard  such  a  lowing,  and  cackling,  and  grunting,  that  she 
hastened  back  to  see  after  them  again ;  but  at  last,  quite  fa- 
tigued, she  told  them  all,  gravely,  that  they  must  think  she  had 
something  else  to  do  than  to  see  after  them !  and  having  ven- 
tured so  far  in  a  reproof  for  their  persevering  demands,  she 
returned  to  the  house,  and  putting  the  small  kettle  on  the  little 
back-kitchen  fire,  made  herself  a  quiet  cup  of  tea,  which  greatly 
refreshed  her,  so  much  so  that  after  the  toil  and  excitement  of 
the  morning  she  at  last  fell  asleep  in  her  arm-chair.  She  slept 
quietly  there  for  some  half-hour  or  more,  when  a  sudden  sharp 
tap  at  the  door  aroused  her.  "  They  are  come !"  thought  widow 
J  ^nes,  as  she  started  up  from  sleep ;  but  no,  it  was  not  her  son 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  888 

who  opened  the  door  and  looked  in,  it  was  a  stranger.  "  Is  this 
Roode's  plot  ?"  asked  the  man.  "  Yes,"  replied  widow  Jone-s, 
rather  in  alarm  at  sight  of  the  stranger.  ''  I  suppose  you  aro 
the  mother  of  the  man  who  lives  here  ?"  "  Yes,"  said  widow 
Jones,  still  more  uneasy.  "  Then  you  will  please  to  give  your 
son  that  letter,  from  Madam  Clifford  at  the  Hall,  and  be  so 
good  as  to  show  us  where  to  set  up  this  eight-day  clock  !'* 
Widow  Jones  looked  out,  and  there  at  the  stile  stood  a  light 
cart  with  another  man  in  it,  and  the  eight-day  clock.  But  be- 
fore she  had  time  to  consider,  the  men  were  in  with  the  clock, 
and  soon  fixed  on  the  best  place  to  put  it  in  themselves,  and, 
finding  the  old  woman  had  no  objection  to  their  choice  of  situa- 
tion, they  set  it  up  at  once,  observing  as  they  did  so,  that  it 
was  one  of  the  best  time-keepers  ever  put  together  ;  and  before 
widow  Jones  had  recovered  enough  from  her  surprise  to  do 
more  than  look  at  the  outside  of  the  letter  in  her  hand,  from 
that  to  the  clock,  and  then  back  again  to  the  sealed  letter,  the 
men  were  gone,  and  the  cart,  and  all  out  of  sight  like  a  dream 
— except  that  there  stood  the  clock,  ticking  each  moment  of 
time,  and  over  the  bright  hands  at  the  top  of  the  face  a  colored 
picture  of  a  shepherd-lad  with  a  lamb  on  one  arm,  and  his  sheej. 
feeding  at  his  feet.  It  was  well  widow  Jones  had  had  her 
cup  of  tea  and  her  refreshing  sleep,  for  most  surely  neither  would 
have  been  thought  of  after  the  arrival  of  the  clock.  "  Then  it 's 
from  Madam  herself,  for  my  Jem  on  his  wedding-day  !"  at  last 
said  widow  Jones,  as  she  once  more  looked  at  the  letter, 
"  Well !"  she  added,  "  if  all  this  is  not  wonderful,  I  don't  know 
what  is  !"  and  lifting  a  thankful  look  upward,  old  widow  Jones 
sat  down  again  in  her  arm-chair,  to  consider  all  things  over 
before  her  children's  arrival. 

But  when  Patience  at  the  farm  at  last  turned  to  take  leave, 
Mrs.  Smith's  pleasant  smile  was  gone,  her  lip  quivered,  and  hef 


884  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

strong  firm  voice  faltered.  Patience  could  not  tell  her  own 
feeling  in  -words,  but  none  needed  to  hear  it  spoken,  her  years 
of  faithful  service  left  no  doubt  of  that — the  moments  passed, 
and  the  maid  and  her  mistress  had  parted,  the  record  of  her 
years  in  that  place  of  service  was  finished,  and  nothing  of  the 
past  could  be  altered.  How  often  does  that  solemn  moment 
come  and  go  unheeded — a  service  ended,  a  place  left,  and  the 
past  is  supposed  to  be  done  with ;  but  the  record  of  that  past — 
what  is  written  there?  that  moment  of  parting  has  sealed  it, 
and  it  lies  from  that  time  in  the  hand  of  the  Judge,  till  the  day, 
that  bringeth  all  secret  things  to  light — must  see  it  unfolded. 
In  the  hands  of  the  Judge  lie  the  records  of  the  past  years  of 
all ;  and  not  one  created  being  can  unfold  or  read  them,  still 
less  alter  a  single  word  they  contain.  But  there  is  One,  and 
only  One,  to  whom  they  still  lie  open — even  Jesus,  the  Saviour 
of  sinners ;  and  eai'nest  prayer  to  Him  may  still  avail  to  get  all 
the  hand-writing  against  us  blotted  out  in  his  blood ;  only  let 
us  not  go  thoughtlessly  forward — as  if  those  records  of  the  past 
contained  no  sentence  against  us !  For  Patience  the  record 
was  blessed ;  and  she  knew  the  secret  of  prayer  to  that  Saviour, 
whose  blood  cleanseth  from  all  sin — blotteth  out  all  His  peo- 
ple's transgression,  and  maketh  their  imperfection  perfect.  So 
Patience  had  parted  in  peace,  beneath  the  blessing  of  Heaven 
and  of  Earth,  and  was  now  descending  the  hill.  Mi-s.  Smith 
waited  a  few  moments  looking  out  of  the  window,  in  the  effort 
to  recover  composure ;  then  turning  to  Rose,  who  was  watch- 
ing beside  her,  she  said,  "  I  wish  you  would  run  after  Patience 
with  that,"  taking  a  book  done  up  in  paper  from  her  pocket, 
"  you  know  what  it  is,  I  did  not  feel  able  to  speak  about  it  when 
she  went,  as  I  meant  to  have  done.  You  can  tell  her  it 's  foi 
the  sake  of  Uttle  Tim !"  Rose  took  the  book,  and  her  swifl 
steps  soon  overtook  Patience,  who,  leaning  on  Jem,  was  ascend 


p.  884 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  385 

ing  the  opposite  hill.  " Patience,  mother  sends  you  this,  it's  a 
book  of  family  prayer,  like  the  one  my  aunt  gave  her;  she 
wishes  you  to  keep  it  for  the  sake  of  little  Tim  ;  she  meant  to 
have  given  it  you  herself,  only  she  was  so  overcome  at  your 
going !"  Patience  took  the  small  parcel,  and  looking  back  at 
the  farm,  sent  a  message  by  Rose  of  her  duty  and  her  thanks  to 
her  mistress,  with  the  assurance  that  they  would  take  it  into  use 
every  day. 

Mercy  stayed  at  the  farm  to  assist  Mrs.  Smith  and  Rose,  in 
the  clearing  away;  and  to  make  things  more  cheerful  there 
where  she  was  a  favorite  with  all.  And  now  at  length  widow 
Jones  looking  out  from  above  the  bright  geraniums  in  the  win- 
dow, saw  Jem  and  his  bride  at  the  stile.  Then  she  opened  wide 
the  cottage  door,  and  stood  just  within — where  the  sheltering 
vine  on  one  side,  and  the  drooping  honeysuckle  on  the  other, 
softly  shaded  the  view  of  her  now  feeble  figure.  Patience  walked 
up  the  path  first,  and  Jem  followed  close  after,  and  the  old  woman 
stretched  out  both  her  arms  and  clasped  them  round  Patience, 
and  Patience  threw  her's  round  the  old  woman's  neck,  and  felt, 
for  the  first  time  in  life,  that  she  too  had  a  mother!  Then  as 
Patience  imlocked  that  close  embrace,  the  old  woman  turning  to 
her  son,  said,  "  God  bless  you,  my  Jem,  and  bless  us  all  here  to- 
gether, for  I  am  sure  't  is  his  goodness  that  brings  such  things  to 
pass !"  and  Jem  looked  on  as  if  he  felt  the  sight  he  then  saw  was 
the  best  sight  of  all.  But  just  then,  Jem  started  and  stared,  for  a 
loud-striking  clock  told  the  hour,  with  a  slow  decided  c^il  upon 
the  attention  of  all. 

"  Why,  mother !  a  clock  !  where  did  it  come  from  ?" 

**  All !  never  mind  that !"  rephed  widow  Jones,  "  look  he^*  m 
this  drawer,  here 's  a  letter  in  Madam  Chffbrd's  own  han<i  i^ 
that  don't  tell  you  all  about  it  I  am  sure  that  I  can't !" 

Jem  took  up  the  letter. 

17 


386  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

**  But  now,  child,  come,  sit  down,"  said  tlie  old  womat,  tummg 
to  Patience.  "  Why,  to  think  that  you  have  never  been  insido 
the  door,  and  yet  all  these  months  you  have  known  the  place 
was  just  waiting  for  you  !" 

Jem  had  opened  the  letter,  but  finding  it  not  easy  to  read  in 
a  moment  of  time,  he  folded  it  up  for  a  better  opportunity,  and 
turned  again  to  his  bride,  and  then  leaning  on  the  back  of  her 
chair,  told  his  aged  mother,  who  wgs  seated  before  him,  of  the 
feast  their  good  mistress  had  made  at  the  farm.  While  Patience 
held  closely  that  treasured  book  of  prayer,  and  looked  round  on 
her  new  abode.  Wliat  comfort  beamed  upon  her  from  every 
comer :  and  there  lay  the  large  Bible,  dear  old  Willy's  own  Bible, 
of  which  Jem  had  so  often  told  her!  She  longed  to  look  on  its 
pages  where  the  old  man  had  read,  but  she  said  nothing  then ! 
and  Jem  seemed  to  wish  to  give  her  time  to  look  round ;  and 
poor  old  widow  Jones  looked  so  happy  on  the  two,  that  she 
seemed  in  no  hurry  either  to  move  or  to  speak. 

"  Well,"  at  last  Jem  asked  with  his  own  cheerful  smile,  "  do 
you  think  it  looks  any  thing  like  what  you  fancied,  and  as  if  you 
could  content  yourself  here  ?" 

"  Not  like  what  I  fancied !"  said  Patience,  looking  up,  "  you 
never  told  me  how  beautiful  it  all  was  inside,  I  never  saw  such  a 
home  as  it  is  for  any  like  us  !" 

"  Ah,  that  was  all  our  young  Squire's  doing,"  said  Jem,  "  and 
I  don't  know,  but  somehow  a  blessing  seems  to  bide  with  it  all, 
for  it  always  looks  as  beautiful  and  cheerful  as  can  be,  just  as  you 
see  it  looks  now  !" 

"  But  what  a  clock  that  is !"  said  Patience,  "  do  yo  see  that 
shepherd  with  the  lamb  in  his  arms  ?  and  the  clock  is  so  like 
ours  at  the  fann,  it  seems  quite  natural  to  look  at  it !" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Jem,  "  I  never  was  more  taken  by  surprise  in 
my  life  then  when  it  set  up  striking  just  as  we  had  come  in  at 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  SSl 

the  door !  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  have  a  word  to  say  to  us  also ! 
but  I  don't  seem  to  have  thought  about  it  yet.  I  can't  think," 
added  Jem,  "  what  that  kind  of  grunting  is  I  hear,  I  could  almost 
have  thought  my  poor  httle  pig  that  I  lost  had  come  to  life  again, 
to  welcome  you  here !" 

Then  old  widow  Jones  rose  up  from  her  chair,  and  said,  "  I 
advise  you  to  go  and  see  what  it  is,  and  settle  your  mind  about 
it  at  once !"  so  Jem  opened  the  door  into  the  back  kitchen 
when  a  loud  shrill  crow  from  a  cock  burst  on  the  ear  of  Pa- 
tience. 

"  You  come  and  all !"  said  Jem  to  Patience,  who  hastened 
after  him,  the  aged  mother  following — to  the  pig-stye;  there 
looked  up  the  little  black  pig,  grunting  eagerly  again  as  if  quite 
sure  now  of  a  feast ;  and  then  turning  away  from  Jem  and  Pa- 
tience, looked  up  at  widow  Jones,  as  soon  as  she,  his  kind  feeder, 
arrived  as  the  stye. 

"  Why,  mother !  what  a  beauty  of  a  pig !"  exclaimed  Jem, 
"  how  ever  in  the  world  did  you  get  it  ?  Why,  it 's  just  like  one 
of  master's  at  the  farm  !" 

"  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  every  thing  in  a  moment !"  said 
widow  Jones,  decidedly ;  while  the  cock,  at  the  sound  of  pleasant 
voices,  crowed  forth  a  further  announceu  jat  of  his  presence  on 
the  premises.  Jem  stepped  oc  to  the  shed  and  opened  the  door, 
then  holding  it  back,  said  in  amaze,  "  Patience,  only  you  look  in 
here  !"  Patience  looked  in ;  there  stood  the  black  heifer,  who 
at  sight  of  Patience  pulled  hard  at  the  rope,  by  which  she  was 
tied,  to  get  to  her  side ;  there  stood  the  new  barrow ;  the  hens 
and  the  cock — in  the  basket  made  by  the  sailor-boy  Ted.  "  Now 
you  just  listen,"said  widow  Jones, "  and  I  '11  tell  you  all."  So  Jem 
stood  there  and  listened,  still  all  in  amaze,  and  Patience  beside 
him — while  the  black  heifer  was  happy  with  ter  hand,  which  it 
licked  on  both  sides. 


388  MINISTERING     CHILDRElsr. 

"  I  was  nere  in  tlie  hous«  then,"  said  widow  Jones,  "  keeping 
all  straioflit  witliin;  when,  who  should  I  see  but  our  master 
leading  up  the  young  cow !  Out  I  went ;  and  he  told  me  he 
had  brought  it  from  our  mistress,  a  present  for  Patience — for  her 
very  own,  and  he  said  she  was  to  have  it  and  sell  milt  to  the 
poor ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  wholly  a  beautiful  thing,  that  she 
who  had  been  altogether  a  comfort  up  there,  should  come  here 
to  a  home  and  sell  milk  to  the  poor !  But  that  was  just  what  our 
master  said  ;  and  if  you  will  believe,  there's  the  whole  concern 
for  the  milking  come  too !  It's  all  set  out  in  the  dairy ;  just  you 
come  and  look."  Back  widow  Jones  hurried,  and  Patience  and 
Jem  followed  after,  to  see  the  milk-pail  with  its  bright  rims,  the 
milk-pans,  and  cream-pot,  and  skimmer,  all  set  out  in  the  dairy. 
Then,  returning  again,  widow  Jones  went  on  to  tell  all  the  his- 
tory, not  shortened  the  least  by  her  remarks  in  between  the 
matters  of  fact  that  she  had  to  relate :  how  the  fowls  were  from 
Rose ;  the  basket  the  sailor-boy's  work,  and  all  that  their  master 
had  said  about  it;  and  the  barrow  for  Jem,  to  serve  him  for  life, 
in  remembrance  of  the  love  of  little  Tim.  Then  followed  the 
box  and  all  its  contents — quite  new  to  widow  Jones ;  the  house- 
linen,  the  shawl,  and  the  picture:  till  Patience  could  bear  up  no 
longer  against  such  tokens  of  affection  and  kindness,  and,  tying 
on  her  bonnet,  she  said,  "  I  tell  you  what,  Jem,  before  we  do  any 
thing  more  T  must  go  down  to  the  farm,  and  you  with  me,  and 
speak  about  what  we  found  here !"  So  Patience  and  Jem  re- 
turned agam  to  the  faim,  and  going  in  by  the  back-door,  found 
Mrs.  Smith  still  busy  clearing  away :  Patience  sat  down  on  tlie 
low-backed  kitchen  chair,  where  she  sat  in  tears  the  day  little 
Tim  first  took  notice  of  her ;  she  could  not  now  speak  a  word, 
but,  quite  overcome,  she  hid  her  face  and  wept,  while  Jem  stood 
silent  beside  her.  "  Wliy,  Patience,  child !"  said  Mrs.  Smith, 
stopping  short  with  a  cloth  in  her  hand,  with  which  she  was 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  38V 

rulbing  up  the  tankard;  "come  back  so  soon!  why,  child, 
what's  the  matter?" 

"  It 's  only  your  goodness,  and  master's  too,"  said  Jem ;  "  in- 
deed it's  all  over  too  much  for  us  both !" 

"  Well  now,  if  that's  all,"  replied  Mrs.  Smith,  "you  have  done 
and  said  quite  enough,  so  never  let  me  hear  another  word  about 
that,  nor  your  master  either — here  he  is  close  by  to  say  the 
same." 

"  But  the  black  heifer  !"  said  Patience,  without  looking  up ; 
"I  am  sure  I  never  could  of  thought  it!  I  thought  I  was 
leaving  all  the  creatures  behind,  and  then,  when  I  got  up  there 
— why  they  seemed  all  up  there  before  me !" 

"And  where  could  they  have  been  better,  child,  I  should  like 
to  know  ?"  replied  Mrs.  Smith.  "  Haven't  you  and  Jem  just 
tended  them  all  with  that  care  that  nothing  seemed  to  be  lost 
that  was  imder  your  hand  ?  You  know  that  very  well ;  and 
though  it's  just  what  every  one  who  has  a  right  principle  would 
do,  yet  I  was  not  going  to  seem  as  if  I  did  not  know  it,  for  I 
did,  and  your  master  no  less!  And  I  do  say,  if  there's  one  in 
the  ullage  who  has  more  of  a  right  than  another  to  sell  milk 
for  the  poor,  it's  just  you  and  Jem !  I  know  I  always  have  taken 
a  pleasure  in  that,  and  I  am  pretty  sure  you  will  no  less ;  and 
such  a  fancy  we  all  had  for  the  black  heifer — what  could  we 
wish  better  for  her  than  to  live  for  serving  the  poor  with  her 
milk !  Why  I  am  sure  I  little  thought  you  would  not  get  over 
the  day  without  being  do'vn  here  again!  But  it's  just  your 
way  for  all  that,  and  you  may  be  sure  I  shall  soon  come  up  and 
look  after  you  ;  so  not  a  word  more  about  any  thing — you  re- 
member I  have  said  it !"  And  with  that  Mrs.  Smith  made  an 
end  of  her  reply. 

And  now  in  looked  Rose  and  Mercy,  both  ready  for  a  walk, 
all  surprise  at  sight  of  Patience  and  Jem. 


890  MIKISTERING     CHILDREN. 

"  Wliy,  here's  Rose  and  Mercy  coining  off  up  to  you,  ana  yon 
not  at  home  to  receive  them  I  There  now,  be  satisfied,  and 
don't  shed  another  tear  over  that  which  comes  only  as  a  bless- 
ing!" said  Mrs.  Smith,  and  then  adding,  "Good-by  to  you, 
my  good  girl,  I  don't  think  any  the  worse  of  you  for  coming  so 
soon  dowTi!"  and  with  fresh  and  livelier  parting  words  than 
before.  Patience  again  hastened  back  to  her  cottage-home  with 
Jem. 

The  good  mother  had  set  out  the  tea  all  in  readiness — the 
picture  of  comfort.  Rose  and  Mercy  followed  after.  Rose  bear- 
ing the  round  wedding-cake,  her  mother's  own  making;  and 
Mercy  carrying  all  the  white  lilies  in  an  open  farm-basket  on 
her  arm,  and  a  nosegay  of  the  flowers  in  her  hand.  The  cake 
was  set  down  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  Rose  would  do 
and  look  at  nothing  till  she  had  covered  it  again  with  its  lilies 
— to  the  admiration  and  delight  of  widow  Jones.  Then  visiting 
all  the  creatures  with  Patience  and  Mercy  and  Jem,  she  hastened 
back  again  to  the  farm ;  while  Jem  and  his  bride,  and  his 
mother  and  Mercy,  sat  down  at  the  round  cottage  table.  Then 
Mrs.  Clifford's  letter  was  brought  out  again ;  and  Mercy  knew 
her  mistress's  handwriting,  and  was  able  to  read  it  every  word 
to  the  pleasure  of  the  whole  party. 

Now  Jem  began  to  consider  how  he  could  get  his  duty  and 
his  thanks  to  Madam  Clifford ;  he  consulted  with  Mercy  whether 
she  thought  he  might  make  bold  and  step  up  that  evening  and 
ask  to  speak  to  the  young  Squire ;  or  whether  he  ought  to  wail 
till  the  next  day.  Jem's  grateful  heart  did  not  like  to  pavss  the 
day  over  without  offering  his  thanks ;  he  was  dressed  also  in 
his  best,  which  seemed  suitable  for  going  up  to  the  Hall  on  such 
an  occasion ;  but  still  more  than  this,  Jem  had  a  feeling  of  not 
liking  to  pass  his  wedding-day  over  without  so  much  as  a  sight 
of  the  young  Squire :  he  seemod  to  think  that  all  could  not  go 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  391 

BO  well  with  him  :f  he  went  over  the  day  without  a  sight  of  him ; 
BO  it  was  decided  that  after  tea  he  should  walk  up.  But  while 
they  were  still  seated  round  at  the  table,  (the  cottage-door  wide 
open,)  in  that  summer  afternoon,  and  Jem  seated  in  fidl  view  of 
the  road,  he  suddenly  started  up,  saying,  "There's  our  young 
Squire  himself  at  the  stile!"  So  Jem  hastened  out;  there 
Herbert  stood,  with  a  noble  dog  waiting  beside  him.  "  Well, 
Jem,"  said  the  young  Squire,  "  I  could  not  be  the  only  one  not  to 
wish  you  well  in  a  friendly  greeting  to-day,  so  I  walked  down 
this  Way,  expecting  now  I  should  find  you  at  home."  Then 
Jem  sent  his  best  message  of  duty  and  gratitude  to  Madam 
Clifford  for  the  handsomest  clock,  Jem  said,  he  ever  had  seen ! 
And  he  asked  the  young  Squire  if  he  would  please  to  walk  in 
and  see  how  it  stood.  Herbert  went  in  with  Jem,  and  there  he 
saw  that  dwellipg  of  comfort  and  peace;  the  tall  clock  with 
the  shepherd-lad  and  the  young  lamb  on  his  arm  painted  on  it ; 
the  lily-covered  cake ;  the  aged  mother  in  her  new  array ;  and 
Patience  and  Mercy  beside  her.  The  young  Squire  sat  down, 
and  the  dog  sat  at  his  feet  and  looked  up  in  his  face.  Then 
Herbert  said,  "  Jem,  now  you  are  a  rich  man,  and  I  thought  you 
might  manage  to  keep  a  good  dog.  I  had  this  from  some  dis- 
tance for  you,  the  best  of  his  kind,  I  believe ;  he  is  a  huge  fel- 
low, but  he  won't  cost  you  more,  I  fancy,  than  you  will  be  will- 
ing to  spend  on  him.  What  do  you  say  to  having  him  for  a 
helper  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  Jem,  "  to  my  thinking,  he  looks  to  have 
sense  enough  to  keep  sheep  by  himself !" 

At  Jem's  wit  they  all  laughed,  and  the  young  Squire  was 
quite  satisfied ;  but  he  said,  "  You  must  take  a  httle  notice  of 
him  at  first,  or  I  am  afraid  he  will  run  off  to  me,  for  I  have 
made  a  great  favoiite  of  him ;  we  must  tie  him  up  for  to-night. 
And  see  here,  I  have  brought  a  cord,  for  I  remembered  that 


892  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

you  only  engaged  for  a  pair  of  hands — when  I  came  to  you  sup- 
posing you  furnished  with  ropes  for  drawing  up  the  log  from  the 
ditch  !"  The  young  Squire  went  with  Jem  to  fasten  up  the  dog, 
and  then  Jem  showed  him  the  presents  received  that  day ;  and 
to  be  able  to  show  them  to  him  seemed  to  double  the  joy  Jem 
felt  in  them  all :  and  if  the  black  heifer  was  a  treasure  to  Pa- 
tience, what  was  not  the  noble  shepherd's  dog  to  Jem — the 
young  Squire's  own  gift !  Then  the  Squire  heard  how  Patience 
was  to  sell  milk  to  the  poor,  and  this  led  him  to  inquire  why 
there  should  be  occasion  for  that,  and  then  he  found  from  Jem 
that  all  the  farmers  made  their  milk  into  cheese,  and  so  had  none 
to  sell,  except  farmer  Smith ;  and  the  Squire  made  a  note  in  his 
book  of  the  fact,  and  remembered  it  in  years  to  come.  Then  he 
left  honest  Jem  with  his  bride  and  his  mother  in  old  Willy's 
cottage — and  returned  to  the  Hall. 

After  tea,  while  Patience  and  Mercy  cleared  away,  Jem  went 
after  food  for  the  creatures  ;  he  longed  to  take  his  dog  with  him, 
but  he  could  not  venture  so  soon.  Then  the  sun  went  do^vn  in 
the  sky ;  and  when  all  the  live  creatures  were  provided  for — 
before  Mercy  returned  to  the  Hall — Jem  opened  old  Willy's 
Bible,  and  while  they  all  sat  around,  he  read  the  103d  Psalm, 
and  then  they  knelt  down,  and  he  offered  up  the  evening  prayer 
from  the  book  Mrs.  Smith  had  given  in  remembrance  of  little 
Tim.    And  so  closed  that  bright  summer  day. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

"  WTien  the  ear  heard,  then  it  blessed  me ;  and  when  the  eye  saw,  it  gave  witneM  ta 
mo :  because  I  delivered  the  poor  that  cried,  and  the  fatherless  and  him  that  had  none 
to  help  him.  The  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to  perish  came  upon  me ;  and  I 
caused  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  for  joy."' — Job  xxix.  11-13. 

QOON  after  the  young  Squire  came  of  age,  it  was  necessary  to 
^  appoint  a  fresh  steward  for  the  estate  on  which  he  resided,  to 
watch  over  and  receive  the  rents  of  the  farms,  and  for  all  such 
affairs  as  belong  to  the  office  of  a  farm-steward.  He  had  looked 
forward  to  this  change,  and  made  his  own  choice  as  to  who 
should  fill  this  oflSce — so  important  in  the  manner  of  its  exercise 
to  the  comfort  as  well  as  to  the  integrity  of  those  over  whom 
the  steward  is  appointed  to  watch.  No  sooner  was  the  office 
vacant  than  William  was  sent  for  to  the  Hall,  and  it  was  oft'ered 
to  him.  Farmer  Smith's  farm  was  not  large,  and  it  would  be 
easy  for  William  still  to  live  with  his  parents,  assist  his  father  on 
the  farm,  and  yet  accomplish  all  that  this  new  employment 
would  require  of  him :  while  the  yearly  salary  received  would 
make  the  circumstances  of  his  family  all  he  could  desire — for  it 
was  only  the  difficulty  of  always  being  ready  with  his  rent  that 
kept  farmer  Smith's  mind  harassed  by  his  business.  So  William 
gratefully  accepted  the  ofter,  and  was  appointed  farm-steward  of 
the  estate. 

A  year  passed  peacefully  over  Patience  in  her  new  abode ; 
and  when  the  summer  came  again — with  its  long  days  and 
refreshing  fruits,  she  received   a  visit  from  her  first  master't 


S94  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

family ;  they  all  came  over  to  spend  a  day,  to  tlie  joy  of  Patience 
and  the  delight  of  all  the  children — but  especially  of  little 
Esther,  who  was  left  for  a  month's  visit  with  Patience,  till  she 
became  so  fond  of  all  country  sights  and  sounds — of  the  black 
cow  with  its  brimming  pail  of  white-frothed  milk ;  the  poor 
women  and  children  coming  to  buy  of  Patience ;  the  white 
hens,  and  little  chickens  who  flew  upon  her  shoulders ;  the 
shepherd's  dog  and  the  sheep ;  and  even  of  feeding  the  pig  with 
all  that  Patience  put  by  in  a  plate  for  its  food,  of  vegetables 
and  apple-peels — that  she  returned  to  her  home  in  the  town, 
fully  resolved  on  being  a  farm-house  servant,  and  living  with 
Mrs.  Smith — ^if  she  would  receive  her  when  her  age  was  suffi- 
cient. 

Mrs.  Smith  had  had  a  trying  year  with  her  servants,  three  times 
in  the  course  of  the  year  she  had  been  obliged  to  make  a  change ; 
she  tried  to  be  patient  and  not  to  expect  too  much,  but  it  was  all 
of  no  use  ;  she  said,  she  found  all  the  servant-girls  of  one  mind 
— and  that  was  idleness  and  finery,  instead  of  real  honest  work  I 
So  thoughtless  girls  came  and  left  a  situation  where  Patience 
had  stayed  to  earn  the  favor  of  all.  Mrs.  Smith  was  quite  in 
despair,  and  said  she  saw  no  help  for  it  but  doing  the  work  her- 
self with  Rose,  for  such  servants  were  more  trial  than  all  their 
service  was  worth.  Patience  often  came  down  to  the  farm  on 
baking-days,  or  churning-days,  or  washing-days,  and  stayed  for. 
some  hours  to  help  ;  and  these  were  pleasant  times  both  to  her 
mistress  and  hersel£  One  day  while  Patience  was  busy  taking 
out  the  bread  from  the  large  brick  oven  at  the  farm,  Mrs.  Smith 
being  then  without  a  serv^ant,  a  pleasant-looking  woman  came  up 
to  the  door  and  asked  if  Mrs.  Smith  was  within. 

"  Yes,"  said  Patience,  and  she  went  to  let  her  mistress  know. 

"  I  daresay  it 's  only  a  girl  after  the  place  !"  said  Mrs.  Smith. 

"  No,  she  looks  over  age  to  be  after  that,"  replied  Patienca 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  395 

So  Mrs.  Sniitli  came  down  as  soon  as  she  was  ready,  to  the  back- 
kitchen  where  the  young  woman  waited.  Mrs.  Smith  looked  at 
her  for  a  moment  as  she  stood  there  before  her,  then  exclaimed, 
"Why,  Molly!  is  it  you?" 

"  Yes,  that  it  is,"  replied  Molly,  "  I  heard  you  were  unsettled, 
and  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  not  be  against  my  coming 
back  to  you  again,  for  I  have  never  felt  at  home,  or  stayed  long 
in  any  place  since  I  left  you,  and  I  think  if  I  could  but  get  back 
here,  I  should  feel  settled  again.  I  am  sure  I  have  often  repent- 
ed that  I  gave  up  as  I  did,  instead  of  trying  on  a  little  longer ; 
but  I  hope  I  should  be  wiser  for  the  future  !" 

"  Well,  Molly,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  "  I  always  felt  I  was  to  blame 
for  your  leaving ;  but  I  hope  things  are  better  now  in  some  re- 
spects, than  they  were  :  though  the  child  is  gone ! — ^you  know 
that,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Molly,  "  I  vexed  sadly  for  him !  it  cut  me  up 
more  than  any  thing  to  have  left  him ;  but  I  hope  it  was  all  for 
the  best  for  him,  by  what  I  heard." 

"  Well,  Molly,  I  know  you,  and  you  know  the  place,  and  if 
your  mind  is  to  come  back,  I  am  sure  my  mind  is  the  same,  and 
your  master's  I  can  answer  for  as  well  as  my  own,  and  therefore 
there 's  no  need  to  say  any  more  words  about  it."  So  Molly 
came  back  to  the  farm,  a  more  patient  servant,  to  find  a  more 
patient  mistress ;  and  comfort  was  once  more  restored  to  Mrs. 
Smith's  household  arrangements. 

Another  pleasant  event  of  this  summer  was  the  return  of  the 
sailor-boy  from  his  first  long  voyage.  Full  of  spirits  and  bodily 
vigor,  sun-burnt,  and  laden  with  his  gifts  of  love — he  came  to 
gladden  the  hearts  of  all ;  to  shake  heartily  every  friendly  hand 
— and  none  were  foes  with  him ;  to  visit  every  familiar  spot ;  to 
hold  discourse  with  all  the  men  of  village-trade  on  the  use  he 
liad  made,  or  was  likely  to  make,  of  their  arts — though  he  had 


8^6  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

yet  kuown  no  shipwreck ;  to  learn  again  from  the  lips  of  the 
Minister — to  tell  him  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  and  done,  and 
to  list(3n  to  his  advice  for  the  future.  He  made  no  little  stir 
both  in  the  farm  and  village;  and  then,  having  formed  a  strong 
friendship  ^vith  Jem's  noble  dog ;  comforted  his  mother ;  and 
satisfied  his  father  and  William,  he  went  oflf  again — light  and 
swift  as  a  bird  of  passage,  to  be  tossed  once  more  on  the  free- 
crested  waves. 

Another  year  passed  by,  and  when  the  next  Autumn  came, 
the  young  Squire  had  completed  his  college  life,  and  satisfied 
the  best  hopes  of  his  boyhood's  tutor,  and  it  was  understood  in 
the  village  that  he  was  going  abroad  again  with  his  mother. 
These  tidings  gave  great  disappointment  to  the  hopes  of  those 
who  had  looked  to  the  comfort  of  his  residence  among  them ; 
but  having  assembled  his  tenantiy,  he  told  them  that  he  be- 
lieved his  absence  would  not  be  for  more  than  six  months, 
and  then  he  hoped  to  return  and  live  among  them  for  the  fu- 
ture. He  had  no  sooner  left  than  repairs  and  alterations  were 
begun  at  the  Hall ;  and  the  mansion,  far  from  looking  desolate 
and  deserted  as  before,  was  a  scene  of  perpetual  life  and  activ- 

ity. 

Two  years  of  unclouded  comfort  Patience  had  enjoyed  in  her 
cottage  home.  Jem's  aged  mother,  relieved  from  all  care  and 
toil,  had  regained  fresh  \ngor  and  spirits — she  was  always  busy 
in  little  ways,  always  at  hand,  always  reflecting  the  brightness 
of  that  blight  cottage-home.  But  the  winter  of  the  Squire's 
absence  proved  a  severe  one,  and  the  sudden  cold  seemed  sud- 
denly to  snap  the  old  woman's  feeble  stem  of  life,  and  she  lay 
down  on  her  bed  to  die  !  Patience  could  not  believe,  when  the 
doctor  told  her  that  her  mother's  death  was  near.  "  Why  it 
was  but  a  week  ago,"  she  said,  "  my  mother  was  up  and  a?  cheer- 
ful and  well  as  ever  I  have  known  her  to  be  !"    The  doctor  re- 


MINI6TERING     CHILDREN.  397 

plied,  "  It  miglit  be  so,  but  ber  hours  are  numbered  now  !"  Stil] 
Patience  could  not  believe ;  she  thought  it  must  be  a  sudden 
chill,  and  that  warmth  and  care  would  restore  her.  She  lighted 
and  kept  up,  day  and  night,  a  bright  little  fire  in  the  small  grate 
up  stairs ;  she  made  cordials,  and  Mrs.  Smith  came  up  more 
than  once  in  the  day  ;  but  the  old  woman  smiled  on  them,  and 
said,  "  It 's  just  sweet  to  m}''  old  heart  to  feel  you  all  bent  to 
keep  me  still,  if  you  could  !  but  I  am  going  where  I  shall  be  far 
better  off  even  than  here — though  my  last  days  have  been  my 
best  days !"  Then,  looking  up  at  Patience,  she  said,  "  You 
have  just  been  my  evening  star,  lighting  me  Home — for  I  have 
gathered  more  knowledge  these  two  years  with  you,  than  I  had 
in  my  whole  life  before — let  the  thought  of  that  comfort  you  as 
long  as  you  live  !  Jem,  my  son,"  she  added,  turning  to  him,  "  you 
have  been  your  mother's  staff  all  through  the  weariest  of  her 
way — which  lay  on  this  side  your  poor  father's  grave.  God 
grant  your  mother's  blessing  may  fall  upon  you  in  the  hour  of 
your  need !  I  know  you  will  take  care  of  Mercy ;  she  is  not  fit 
to  stand  in  this  rough  world  alone,  it  would  soon  break  her 
down  ;  but  the  God  of  the  orphan  will  not  let  his  promise  fail. 
It  is  not  darkness  to  me  ;  the  light  that  has,  but  glimmered  be- 
fore me  so  long,  shines  all  bright  round  me  now ;  and  I  hear 
the  voice  of  Him  who  says,  '  Come  unto  me  and  I  will  give  you 
rest !' "  So  the  widow  departed,  and  her  children  mourned  for 
her.  Mercy  was  far  away  with  Mrs.  Clifford  in  a  foreign  land . 
but  tears  were  shed  for  old  widow  Jones  by  the  eyes  of  those 
who  owned  no  tie  of  kindred  with  her.  The  snow  lay  deep 
upon  the  ground,  and  Patience,  ill  from  the  anxiety  of  nursing 
and  the  shock  of  so  sudden  a  loss — ^having  also  her  infant  child 
to  tend — was  little  fit  to  venture  to  the  grave.  Jem  earnestly 
persuaded  her  not  to  go,  but  Patience  would  not  be  persuaded  ; 
she  said  it  was  the  only  respect  she  could  now  show  to  one  who 


608  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

had  been  all  a  mother  could  be  to  her ;  and  to  have  lost  her  so 
suddenly — was  a  trial  she  had  never  so  much  as  thought  upon  I 
Jem  gave  way,  and  Patience  followed  their  aged  mother  to  the 
grave  by  his  side.  But  she  took  cold,  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, and  was  soon  confined  to  her  bed.  Rose  now  came  and 
tended  Patience  and  the  infant,  day  by  day,  with  gentlest  care ; 
and  Mrs.  Smith  was  continually  contriving  in  eveiy  way  to  min- 
ister to  her  comfort:  but,  notwithstanding  all  this  care,  and 
Jem's  ceaseless  anxiety,  the  spring  was  approaching  before  Pa- 
tience was  able  to  leave  her  bed  and  sit  down  stairs  in  old  Willy's 
arm-chair. 

But  the  cheerful  spring  advanced — the  frost  gave  way  before 
the  sun's  warm  beams,  the  flowers  raised  their  heads  above 
their  wintery  graves,  the  birds  looked  down  from  tree  and  hedge 
and  sang  a  welcome  to  them ;  new  life  and  vigor  came  slowly 
back  to  Patience,  and  hope  and  cotnfort  to  the  heart  of  Jem. 
Patience  had  not  yet  milked  the  cow  since  her  illness,  nor  stood 
in  her  dairy  to  help  the  poor  people  who  came,  nor  walked 
down  once  to  the  farm ;  but  the  spring  had  set  foot  on  the 
Earth,  and  the  Earth  was  rejoicing  at  his  presence,  and  Patience 
felt  that  her  life  was  reviving.  And  now  all  her  anxiety  was  to  go 
to  the  church  for  the  Sunday's  service  ;  she  said  she  knew  when 
she  had  once  been  there  she  should  seem  to  be  well  again,  and 
able  to  milk  her  cow  and  attend  to  all  her  home  work.  But 
Jem  was  firm  now,  he  had  sorely  repented  having  suffered  Pa- 
tience to  attend  their  mother's  fiineral,  and  he  now  was  resolved 
to  act  prudently.  At  length  as  May  was  giving  place  to  June, 
the  very  last  Sunday  in  the  month  dawned  as  soft  and  lovely  a 
day  as  the  spring-time  ever  beheld.  Jem  could  not  refuse  Pa- 
tience her  wish  on  such  a  day  ;  so,  wrapped  up  and  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  her  husband,  with  steps  more  feeble  than  she  had  ex- 
pected them  to  be,  while   Rose  kept  house  with  the  infan 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  39fi 

in  the  ccttage,  Patience  went  to  the  afternoon-service  in  the 
church. 

The  Minister — their  own  Minister,  preached  a  missionary  ser- 
mon :  and  when  he  told  of  the  poor  heathen  without  God — 
because  without  Christ,  and  therefore  without  hope  in  the 
world.  Patience  thought  she  could  feel  something  of  what  it 
must  be  to  live,  and  sicken,  and  die,  without  one  glimpse  of 
Heaven,  one  hope  of  entering  there  !  She  thought  of  her  dy- 
ing mother's  peace,  she  thought  of  her  husband's  Christian 
life,  she  thought  of  their  child  baptized  in  her  Saviour's  Name, 
she  thought  of  her  own  faith  and  hope — and  she  longed  to  do 
something  for  the  poor  heathen  as  a  token  of  her  thankfulness 
to  God,  and  her  pity  for  them.  But  what  could  she  do  ?  Their 
mother's  funeral,  and  the  doctor's  long  attendance  on  her,  had 
taken  all  Jem's  savings.  Jem's  last  week's  wages  were  all 
spent  on  the  Saturday  except  one  shilling,  which  he  had  in  his 
pocket,  and  that  she  would  not  ask  him  for,  because  perhaps 
he  might  be  thinking  of  giving  it  himself.  If  Patience  had 
known  of  the  collection  she  would  have  tried  to  save  something 

o 

back  for  it  on  the  Saturday ;  but  Jem  had  not  told  her — most 
likely  he  had  forgotten  it  himself.  What  could  she  do  ?  Pa- 
tience had  still  one  treasure,  a  possession  in  money  that  she  al- 
ways kept  with  her.  She  had  kept  it  through  want  and  dis- 
tress, through  trouble  and  sickness,  through  prosperity  and 
comfort;  she  had  thought  to  keep  it  through  life,  and  that 
nothing  would  ever  win  it  from  her — it  was  the  Lady's  half- 
crown,  the  first  gift  she  had  ever  received  from  the  hand  of 
love;  her  first  knowledge  of  tenderness  was  bound  up  with 
that  gift;  and  she  had  kept  it,  as  her  treasured  possession, 
through  all  her  Ufe's  changes.  But  now  the  call  to  part  with 
it  entered  her  heart — it  seemed  to  come  from  Heaven,  and 
Earth  seemed  to  repeat  the  same  call — "  Is  it  too  much  for  you 


400  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

to  give  up,  to  send  the  Name  of  your  Saviour  to  those  who 
never  heard  the  blessed  sound  of  pardon  and  Heaven  through 
Jesus  Christ?"  Patience  felt  the  question  deep  within  her 
heart,  and  she  resolved — "  No,  I  will  part  with  it  for  that !"  But 
now  a  trial  of  her  resolution  came :  Jem  crossed  from  the  men . 
benches,  after  sernce,  to  her,  and  slipped  their  remaining  shilling 
into  her  hand,  saying,  "  It's  all  we  have,  so  you  must  give  it !" 

"  No,"  replied  Patience,  "  I  have  something  besides,  you  must 
give  that !"  Jem  looked  at  her,  as  if  thinking  she  must  be  mis- 
taken, but  seeing  her  decided,  he  took  the  shilling  and  put  it 
himself  into  the  plate  as  he  passed  out.  Patience  followed 
slowly,  and  dropped  her  half-crown  into  the  same  plate,  then,  as 
if  in  a  moment,  her  heart  seemed  lightened  and  her  steps 
strengthened.  Her  husband  was  waiting  for  her  outside  the 
door,  and  she  walked  home  by  his  side. 

The  sky  that  Sabbath  afternoon  was  beautiful  before  them  aa 
they  descended  the  hill.  When  they  reached  their  peaceful 
cottage  the  door  stood  partly  open,  and  they  heard  the  voice 
of  Rose  singing  to  their  infant ;  the  kettle  was  boiling  on  the 
wood-fire,  the  tea  was  set  ready  on  the  round  table,  and  all 
looked  the  picture  of  repose.  Rose  hastened  back  to  the  farm, 
and  Jem,  with  hghter  heart  and  brighter  face  than  he  had  had 
for  many  a  day — sat  down  with  Patience  to  their  cheerful  tea. 
No  cloud  of  troubled  feeling  hung  over  Patience — ^no,  her  per 
sonal  sacrifice  was  made  to  Him  who  gives  a  present  as  well  aa 
a  future  reward :  and  Jem  could  scarcely  believe  the  change 
for  the  better  he  saw  in  her. .  It  seemed  as  if  the  Lady's  piece 
of  money — ^that  gift  of  tenderness,  true  to  the  feeling  which 
bestowed  it,  was  not  only  to  possess  a  power  to  soothe  through 
years  of  trial,  but,  when  at  last  parted  from,  was  to  yield  more 
present  comfort  and  peace,  even  than  when  possessed ;  while  the 
entOess  future  alone  can  make  manifest  the  results  of  what 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  40\ 

IB  SO  given,  as  this  treasured  possession  of  Patience — ^in  love, 
and  faith,  and  prayer!  From  that  first  Sabbath  at  church, 
Patience  improved  daily  in  health.  Their  infant,  httle  Peace 
by  name,  grew  strong  and  merry  when  more  with  its  mother 
in  the  open  air ;  and  though  Patience  could  not  at  once  recover 
her  strength  and  her  look  of  health,  yet  the  home  of  Jem  again 
wore  its  cheerful  aspect,  and  the  voice  of  joy  was  again  heard 
within  it. 

When  May  had  given  place  to  June,  the  preparations  at  the 
Hall  were'  completed.  All  that  was  the  work  of  the  builder's 
art  had  been  renewed,  or  fresh  adorned :  only  one  room  had 
been  left  unentered  by  the  repairer's  step — ^it  was  the  room  that 
had  been  his  sister's,  which  Herbert  had  made  his  own ;  afiec- 
tion  invested  the  faded  adornment  of  that  room  with  more  at- 
traction than  any  power  of  art  could  have  imparted.  Around 
the  mansion  the  stately  trees  and  verdant  slopes  wore  as  fresh 
an  aspect  as  when  they  firet  put  on  the  emerald  brightness  oj 
the  spring.  Tidings  had  arrived  in  the  village  of  the  Squire 
having  been  married  abroad :  and  now  the  day  was  fixed  for 
his  return,  with  his  bride  and  mother,  to  the  Hall. 

The  appointed  day  arrived  :  and  the  early  stir  of  preparation 
was  general.  No  gifts  had  been  ordered  by  the  Squire  to  cele- 
brate the  event;  well  he  knew  that  his  presence — his  heart 
and  mind,  his  eye  and  voice — would  be  a  gift  more  prized  than 
any,  by  villagers  whose  affections  had  grown  around  him  from 
his  boyhood.  But  orders  were  given  by  him  for  all  the  park- 
gates  to  be  opened,  that  those  who  wished  might  receive  him, 
on  his  return  to  reside  ^among  them  there,  where  he  first  had . 
parted  from  them  at  his  fathers  side.  None  were  slow  to  go 
forth  to  the  welcome — all  dressed  in  festal  garments,  with  the 
look  of  expectant  gladness,  they  waited  and  watched.  The 
tenantry  had  gone  forward  on  horseback,  a  few  miles.     While 


402  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

William,  steward  of  the  farms,  mounted  on  Black  Beauty, 
stood  at  the  grand  entrance  gate.  Four  had  been  named  as 
the  hour;  and  now  it  struck  from  the  great  stable  clock. 
Then  the  scattered  groups  stood  up  from  the  greensward ;  and 
children  took  their  parents'  hands  in  questioning  excitement. 
William  rode  on  Black  Beauty — ^who  chafed  at  his  long  holding 
in — once  down  the  broad  walks  of  the  park,  and  shouted  a 
request  that  all  would  stand  off  at  the  arrival,  then  back  again 
quickly  to  his  post  at  the  great  entrance  gate.  Ringers  had 
been  stationed  by  William  in  the  first  village  church  where  the 
Squire  had  property,  and  as  soon  as  the  long  line  of  tenantry 
returning  and  escorting  the  Squire  were  seen  from  that  village 
steeple,  the  bells  were  to  strike  up  a  peal.  A  watcher  was  set 
on  the  tower  of  the  next  village  church — and  as  soon  as  he 
heard  the  signal  of  approach,  the  solitary  bell  in  that  tower 
was  to  send  on  the  tidings — over  hill  and  valley,  over  the 
green  waving  com  and  the  yet  unmown  grass — to  a  watcher 
on  the  tower  of  their  own  village  church,  then  were  their  own 
bells  to  ring  out  the  welcome  heard  from  afar.  All  hushed 
their  breath  to  listen  for  the  first  distant  sound — too  impatient 
to  wait  for  nearer  tidings,  trusting  to  catch  from  their  fi'iendly 
hills  an  echo  to  the  first  joyous  peal.  And  who  could  wonder  ? 
Had  not  he,  who  now  drew  near,  made  their  sorrows  and  joys, 
their  welfare  and  happiness,  his  own  ? — not  by  general  dispen- 
sations of  kindness,  but  by  that  frank  and  personal  intercourse, 
which  binds  the  heart  with  the  tie  of  devoted  affection — a  tie 
i'ar  stronger,  far  higher,  and  deeper,  than  that  of  mere  personal 
gratitude  for  favors  received.  Had  they  not  seen  his  warm 
feeling  gush  forth,  seen  his  active  sympathy  spring  to  the 
surface  at  the  sight  or  hearing  of  trouble  or  sorrow  of  theirs  ? 
Was  not  the  quick  glance  of  his  boyhood-eye,  his  generous 
utterance,  familiar   to   many  assembled   there?      Who  would 


MINI8TEBING     CHILDREN.  403 

not  come  forth  to  receive  in  his  manhood,  the  boy  who  had 
toiled  in  the  ditch  over  old  Willy's  log;  who  had  climbed 
the  thatcher's  ladder  to  lay  in  an  armful  of  straw,  in  the 
eager  gladness  of  his  heart  at  effacing  the  neglect  of  the  poor 
man's  oppressor !  The  whole  village  might  have  received  gifts 
on  some  stately  occasion,  in  some  stately  manner  by  the  boy 
provided  with  the  means  for  the  large  bestowment;  but  it 
would  not  have  bound  the  heart  of  the  village  to  that  boy  like 
one  free  spontaneous  effort — such  as  Herbert's  had  been,  bear- 
ing witness  to  his  self-forgetfulness  in  the  poor  man's  distress. 
And  was  he  not  the  brother  of  her  who,  to  them,  had  seemed 
an  angel  upon  earth  ?  When  once  aroused  to  a  sense  of  their 
blessedness,  had  he  not  followed  in  ner  gentler  steps  with  hif 
manly  power,  and  had  not  the  hght  of  her  life  shone  reflectec 
in  him?  Then  might  the  deep  well-spring  of  feeling  thai 
had  followed  her  to  Heaven  break  forth  again  to  welcome  hij 
return  to  his  home !  True  loyalty  is  happily  a  contagious  emo- 
tion, and  many  a  heart  beat  quicker,  and  many  a  cheek  glowed 
with  feeling  that  day,  in  those  who  did  but  estimate  the  event 
by  the  expectation  of  others. 

The  servants  had  now  gathered  to  the  door ;  the  men,  in 
their  livery  of  dark  blue  and  white,  stood  in  two  lines  extend- 
•ng  one  on  each  side  the  steps ;  while  the  maids  stood  assem- 
bled in  the  entrance-hall.  Again  and  again  some  eager  lis- 
tener said,  "I  heard  the  bells  stnke  up — I  am  pretty  sure  I 
did !"  But,  no,  it  could  not  have  been,  for  their  own  village 
tower  still  stood  silent.  At  length  William,  the  farm-steward, 
turned  Black  Beauty's  head  round,  and  facing  the  people  and 
the  servants,  waved  his  hat  above  his  head,  then  replacing  it, 
turned  instantly  back  again,  standing  sideways  by  the  gate — 
he  had  caught  the  sound  of  the  distant  peal :  breathlessly  the 
people  now  listened,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  their  own  vii- 


404  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

lage  chime  struck  full  on  the  ear :  then  the  throng  pressed  sid« 
by  side,  as  near  as  might  be  to  the  broad  carriage  sweep,  while 
on  pealed  the  bells ;  till  the  sound  of  many  trampling  hoofe 
was  heard  along  the  road.  Still  on  they  rang,  till  full  in  sight 
came  the  traveling-carriage,  with  its  four  horses  and  its  blue 
postillions;  then  the  people  raised  a  shout,  and  the  tenantry 
who  followed  lifted  their  hats  and  joined  the  welcome  cheers ; 
through  the  great  gate  the  carriage  dashed,  and  William  held 
his  hat  above  his  head,  scarcely  able  to  restrain  Black  Beauty's 
excited  spirit ;  and  his  eye  glanced  up  from  his  master's  face, 
to  where  young  Mercy  sat  behind  on  the  carriage — ^the  village 
maiden  back  from  the  foreign  land,  pale  with  her  own  deep 
feeling,  and  the  sound  of  that  thrilling  welcome.  The  carriage 
stopped  at  the  Hall-door,  and  the  tenantry  dismounted  and  held 
their  horses  in  hand.  The  Squire  stepped  from  the  carriage 
and  led  his  mother  in  to  the  care  of  her  faithful  servants ;  then 
returning  handed  out  his  Lady,  and  waving  his  hand  to  the 
people,  led  her  within.  William  riding  up,  dismounted,  and 
slipping  Black  Beauty's  bridle  over  his  arm,  took  down  the 
orphan  Mercy  from  the  carriage  with  a  brother's  softened  wel- 
come— for  she  wore  mourning  for  the  grandmother  lost  in  her 
absence,  who  had  filled  the  place  of  both  parents  to  her,  and 
her  eyes  were  filled  with  the  tears  of  mingled  feelings.  Then 
a  servant  brought  a  message  to  William  from  the  Hall,  and  he 
instantly  mounted  Black  Beauty  again,  and  riding  down  the 
walks  shouted,  "  The  Squire  begs  you  will  be  seated  on  the 
grass."  Servants  quickly  appeared  bearing  between  them  trays 
of  cake,  and  baskets  filled  with  bottles  of  wine,  all  prepared  by 
the  Squire's  orders  in  readiness  beforehand.  Then  rising,  the 
people  breathed — not  with  a  shout — but  in  a  low  murmur,  a 
blessing  on  the  head  they  had  seen  from  its  childhood  uncov- 
ered beneath  their  roofs  and  among  them ;  a  blessing  on  the 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  405 

Squire's  Lady;  and  a  blessing  on  his  mother.  The  Squire 
stood  at  an  open  window  looking  down  upon  them  and  hearing 
the  thrice-repeated  blessing ;  and  his  Lady  at  his  side ;  and  his 
heart  filled  with  thankfulness  that  his  tenants  and  dependants 
were  his  friends.  Then  the  Squire  turned  away  from  the  win- 
dow, and  the  people  took  their  refreshment  all  seated  on  the 
grass,  till  the  Squire  came  out,  and  his  Lady  on  his  arm; 
they  stood  on  the  first.  Hall  step,  and  the  people  rose  in  silence, 
and  he  said  in  a  voice  not  loud  but  clear — a  voice  whose  tones 
were  all  familiar,  "  God  bless  you,  my  friends,  and  enable  us 
to  reia'n  your  affection.  We  thank  you  for  your  welcome." 
And  then  he  came  down  with  his  Lady ;  and  he  passed  slowly 
among  the  people,  with  his  friendly  greeting,  and  his  Lady  at 
his  side — and  all  the  time  the  village  bells  rang  out  the  same 
glad  peal. 

The  eye  of  the  Squire  sought  out  Jem ;  well  he  knew  his 
heart  would  be  among  the  first  to  welcome  him  there,  but  he 
could  nowhere  discover  his  figure.  At  last  he  saw  him,  with 
his  dog  close  beside  him,  his  infant  on  his  arm,  and  Patience  at 
his  side,  at  the  further  edge  of  the  assembly,  so  he  made  his 
way  up  to  him.  The  dog  knew  the  Squire,  and  sprang  forward 
to  greet  him,  and  leaping  up  licked  his  hand,  and  the  Squire 
caressed  him  as  he  passed  on  to  Jem,  and  said,  in  his  kind 
cheerful  tone,  "  "Well,  Jem ;  do  you  pretend  to  be  the  last  to 
welcome  home  your  friend !"  and  that  beautiful  Lady  stood  be- 
side the  Squire,  and  said  with  a  smile,  "  I  know  the  name  of 
Jem !  Is  this  your  wife  and  child  ?"  "When  Patience  heard 
her  speak  she  looked  up  at  her  face,  then  falling  on  her  knee, 
she  caught  hold  of  that  Lady's  dress,  and  pressing  it  to  her 
lips,  looked  up  again  into  her  face,  exclaiming,  "0  dearest 
Lady!" — It  was  the  Lady  Gertrude!  And — ^faint  from  long 
standing  and  overcome  with  feeling — ^poor  Patience  fell  back 


406  MINISTERING     CHILDREN. 

upon  the  arm  of  Jem,  who  laid  her  gently  on  the  grass,  and 
knelt  beside  her.  The  Squire  said,  "  Bring  water !  and  fetch 
the  gamekeeper's  light  cart  to  carry  her  home  !"  and  Jem  look- 
ed up  and  said,  "  She  has  been  ill  for  months,  and  was  but  just 
getting  over  it,  only  I  persuaded  her  to  come  ynth.  me  to-day, 
— but  it*s  been  all  over  too  much  for  her !"  And  the  Lady 
Gertrude  looked  on  the  pale  face  of  Patience — ^pale  with  her 
late  long  illness,  but  she  saw  no  trace  there  of  that  early  misery 
that  had  left  its  impression  so  strongly  on  her  heart — she  did 
not  know  her  to  have  been  that  child !  Women  had  gathered 
round,  Mrs.  Smith  and  Rose  were  by  this  time  with  Patience, 
and  the  Squire  and  his  Lady  passed  on ,  but  as  they  returned 
toward  the  Hall,  the  Lady  Gertrude  said  to  the  Squire,  "  They 
are  still  there,  let  us  ask  how  Jem's  wife  is  now!"  so  they  stop- 
ped, and  the  little  close-gathered  circle  opened,  and  the  Lady 
Gertrude  said,  "  How  is  she  now  ?"  Patience  was  still  seated 
on  the  grass,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Jem,  but  she  had  revived, 
and  now  seeing  their  Lady  again,  she  said,  "  O,  Jem,  she  is  not 
gone!  ask  if  I  may  speak  to  her?"  And  the  Lady  Gertrude 
heard  the  words,  and  saw  the  flush  suffuse  the  cheek  of  Patience, 
and  kneeling  on  one  knee  upon  the  grass,  beside  her,  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  the  clasped  hands  of  Patience,  and  said,  ''You 
are  better  now,  you  will  soon  recover  this!"  But  Patience 
looking  up,  said,  "  0,  forgive  me,  dearest  Lady !     I  was  that 

poor  child  you  comforted  in !  it  was  you  that  put  feeling 

into  my  froze-up  heart!  and  I  thought  I  should  never  have 
seen  you  again,  and  then  to  see  you  stand  there — ^it  wholly 
overcame  me !"  Tears  came  to  that  Lady's  eyes,  as  she  said, 
"  Are  you  indeed  the  same  ?  then  I  am  come  to  live  near  you 
now,  and  as  I  saw  you  in  sorrow,  so  I  hope  I  shall  often  see  you 
in  joy !  You  may  be  sure  I  shall  soon  come  to  your  cottage  !^ 
Jem  had  heard  all  about  the  love  of  Patience  for  that  he^v- 


MINISTERING     CHILDREN.  407 

enly  child  that  had  come  to  her  in  her  misery,  and  he  looked 
upon  that  beautiful  Lady  kneehng  there,  with  eyes  of  reverence 
and  wonder ;  and  tears  were  in  the  Squire's  eyes  as  he  stood 
there — but  he  did  not  speak  a  word ;  and  Mrs.  Smith,  and  Rose 
with  little  Peace  in  her  arms,  and  the  women  standiug  round — 
looked  on  astonished;  but  the  light  cart  drove  up,  and  the 
Squire  returned  with  his  Lady  to  the  Hall,  and  Patience  was 
taken  back  to  her  home,  tind  so  her  heart's  long  desire  was  ful- 
filled— ^beyond  all  she  had  ever  hoped  or  thought;  and  she 
quickly  recovered  strength ;  and  the  voice  of  joy  and  health 
was  heard  within  her  dwelling. 

Wagons  and  carts  carried  home  the  rejoicing  people;  and 
those  near  at  hand  returned  on  foot.  And  now  the  sun  went 
down,  and  the  long  shadows  fell  over  lawn  and  wood.  Mrs. 
Clifford  stood  at  the  window  with  her  rhildren,  and  gazed  on 
the  slopes  where  the  welcoming  throng  had  been,  and  said,  "  It 
was  too  much  for  me  to  look  upon,  but  not  too  much  to  feel  the 
deepest  thankfulness  for !"  and  her  son  looked  on  her  in  answer- 
ing tenderness.  And  then  the  Squire  asked  his  Lady,  if  she 
missed  the  mountains  from  the  landscape  that  she  had  been  used 
to  from  her  childhood !  And  she  replied,  "  O,  human  hearts 
are  better  than  the  hills,  and  stronger  too  in  their  encircling 
power !  I  know  not  where  on  Earth  I  could  be  so  happy  as 
here.  And  meeting,  the  first  thing,  with  that  poor  child,  whom 
I  have  thought  of  in  her  sorrow  through  so  many  years,  seems 
to  me  a  bright  earnest  of  good."  The  sun  went  down,  and  the 
fervent  feelings  of  that  day  le^oseu  ^n  the  quiet  of  night's  restful 
hours. 

And  now  we  must  take  leave  of  our  ministering  children, — 
who  have  all  outgrown  their  childhood ; — to  write  of  and  for 
childhood  being  all  that  we  promised  from  the  beginning.     Wa 


408  MINISTEKING     CHILDREN. 

have  only  to  ask  the  children  who  read  this  story,  whether  they 
also  are  ministering  children  ?  This  story  has  been  written  to 
show,  as  in  a  picture,  what  ministering  children  are.  There  is 
no  child  upon  Earth  who  may  not  be  a  ministering  child ;  be- 
cause the  Holy  Spirit  of  God,  even  the  blessed  Comforter  Him- 
self, will  come  to  every  child  of  God  who  asks  that  blessed 
Spirit  to  teach  him  how  to  comfort  others.  Even  the  beloved 
Son  of  God,  when  He  came  down  from  Heaven  to  Earth,  came 
to  minister  to  those  who  were  in  need — He  Himself  tells  us  so. 
And  God  sends  His  holy  angels  down  to  Earth  to  be  ministering 
spirits  here.  The  youngest  child  of  God,  who  is  able  to  under- 
stand any  thing,  can  learn  to  be  a  ministering  child ;  therefore, 
all  who  pray  to  God  as  their  Heavenly  Father,  must  try  in  every 
way  they  can  to  minister  to  others :  and  then  one  day  they  will 
go  where  there  is  no  want,  and  no  sorrow,  and  no  sin,  but  only 
fullness  of  joy  and  pleasure  for  evermore,  in  their  Heavenly 
Father's  presence  in  glory ;  and  there  they  will  see  those  whom 
they  comforted  and  taught  to  know  the  love  of  God  their  Sa- 
,viour  upon  earth.  "  And  so  shall  they  ever  be  with  the  Lord ;" 
"  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes ;  and  there 
shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow,  nor  crying,  neither  shall 
there  be  any  more  pain ;  for  the  former  things  will  be 
away." — Rev.  xxi.  4. 


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